


Ablaze

by tuppenny



Series: Growing Together [2]
Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fire, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, feel free to suggest tags and I'll add them!, umm what else... I dunno...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-11-23 05:08:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11395968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuppenny/pseuds/tuppenny
Summary: In January 1900, Joseph Pulitzer's mansion burned to the ground. Jack tears the city apart trying to find out if Katherine made it out alive.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Although this is the second fic in my newsies series, it takes place six months before Sunday Morning, the first newsies fic I wrote (which, I should add, I wrote before I decided turn it into a series). So read them in whatever order makes most sense to you. They're not dependent on each other; I'm just hoping to continue their character development over a longer set of works.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jack and Katherine sit out in the snow and have an embarrassing conversation.

It was really too cold for them to be up on the rooftop. Winter in New York City was frigid, and January was the harshest month of all. But Jack and Katherine were on the rooftop nonetheless, because in all of New York City, that was the only place they could be alone together. Katherine’s house was out of the question, Medda’s theater was doing so well that she never failed to sell out the private boxes, and even if the walls of the newsboys’ lodging house hadn’t been paper-thin, the place was always full to the brim with newsies.

Huddled next to Katherine under the thick woolen blanket and fraying patchwork quilt she had brought from home back in November –and which she had insisted he keep, at least until March–, Jack watched the whirling snowflakes cover the grime and grit of the city. He knew that come morning, all of this pure, crystalline whiteness would be covered in a layer of soot and filth, the snow would be trodden into patches of slick ice and blackish slush, and his boys would be out in the midst of it, their toes freezing, hands covered in paper cuts from having to use their stiff fingers to peel papers off the top of the stack. Grateful as he was to be employed as a cartoonist and illustrator at _The World_ , he knew he ought to be out there with his boys. He still was on Sundays, of course, since his illustrator's salary didn't pay enough for him to be able to help out the other newsies and take care of his own basics, but that was only one day out of seven. For the entire rest of the week, he was hunkered down in a heated office with electric lighting, sitting on his bum while his brothers worked themselves sick. Bile rose in his throat at the thought of it.

He had managed to take the edge off his guilt by spending most of his illustrator’s pay for the last two months on good food and extra layers of clothing for the boys, but there was never enough to go around, and no newsie ever made it through a New York winter unscathed, anyway. If frozen fingers and a lingering cold were all you caught between November and April, you were hailed as a god. Specs had informed Jack today that Henry, Mike, and Smalls were all still laid up with the flu, and Romeo had been hacking up a lung for so long that they all feared he had pneumonia. Everyone else was able to sell, but even they had runny noses or made sounds like a car engine when they breathed. Jack had half a mind to raise money for a doctor by forming a newsie orchestra and touring the United States with them, performing a symphony composed entirely of sneezing, sniffling, and coughing.

But there was no way he'd ever be able to afford a doctor. Not for Romeo, not for Henry, Mike, and Smalls, and not for himself, either, if it ever came to that. And so he was keenly aware of how stupid he and Katherine were being, sitting here together on the snowy fire escape at night without even bothering to use all the blankets he had on the fire escape. He was sure Katherine knew it, too. But neither of them wanted to move. And even though he was intellectually aware of the cold, being pressed this close to Katherine set him on fire. Whenever she touched him, it felt like someone had doused him in gasoline and struck a match, and whenever she moved away, he felt as if he’d crumbled into ash. There was nothing in the world more agonizingly pleasurable than Katherine Plumber’s touch, and there was nothing in the world that Jack Kelly was more scared to ask for.

“It’s getting late, Jack,” she said, her head on his shoulder and her hands entwined with his under the blankets. “I should go.”

He moaned in protest and turned towards her, desperate to charm her into staying with him. “It ain’t that late; the birds ain’t stirrin’ yet.”

“That’s a terrible argument,” she said, pulling one hand out from under the blanket to stroke the side of his face. He closed his eyes to focus on the gentle touch of her fingers, oh so warm against his frozen cheek. “My parents expect me back tonight, not tomorrow morning. They’ll know I lied about having to stay at work to finish an article if I show up after midnight.”

He stuck out his lower lip, looking less like a fearless strike leader and more like a willful toddler. “Please, Ace? Just a little while longer?”

She leaned in to kiss his pouty mouth and broke into an affectionate smile as she did so. “I swear, Jack Kelly, you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.” She brushed her fingers over his lips, entranced by their softness. “I wish I could sit here with you all night, snow and cold be damned, but if I stay here any longer, I’m…” She blushed.

“You’re what? If it’s bad enough to make you blush, I gots ta know.”

“I’m going to fall asleep on you,” she mumbled, turning her face away. “And there’s no way I’m doing that.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Ouch, Ace. I gots feelings, ya know. I ain’t just a breathin’ mattress.”

“It’d be easier if you were,” she said, rolling her eyes at him. “And don’t give me a hard time, you know what I mean.”

He shoved her gently, and the motion let a waft of cold air into their blanket haven. “Falling asleep on someone ain’t scandalous like sleepin’ _with_ someone… though we could do both, if ya wanted to.”

She sprang up, scattering blankets everywhere, and Jack flinched and covered his head in response to the sudden motion. “John Francis Kelly!” She snapped, her eyes blazing. “Rein in that mouth of yours!”

He gave her a cocky grin so that she couldn’t tell how much her movement had startled him. “Nobody ain’t called me that since my ma died,” he said. “You better watch it, or her ghost’ll come right outta the graveyard, lookin’ ta see who’s fussin’ at her boy.”

She stamped her foot. “I’m serious, Jack.”

“Alright, alright,” he said, holding up his hands in acquiescence. “Look,” he said, his voice steady and serious now. “Ya knows I’m all mouth. I didn’t really mean it. I mean, it’s not that I didn’t mean it, because I’d like… I mean, I didn’t mean it like that, but if you… No, that’s all wrong, too, I just mean that I would if you…” He stopped, face beet red. “Aw, heck.” Katherine folded her arms and said nothing, so Jack fumbled on. “See here, Ace, I’d never in a million years do anythin’ ya didn’t want me to. In all the time I’ve known ya, I ain’t never touched ya without your say-so, and I promise you that I ain’t never gonna.”

Katherine glared at him a moment longer and then gave in. “I know.” She busied herself with smoothing out her skirts. “I know you didn’t mean it like that, and I know you joke about those things, but I’m… It’s not something I’m used to. And if it were anyone else I could ignore it,” she said, her voice dropping low. “Goodness knows the men in the newsroom have said worse. But with you it’s different, because, well… because I wouldn’t…” She bit her lip. “I wouldn’t mind doing all that with you, I don’t think. Eventually. And when we sit like this…” She motioned to the rumpled blankets and the snow-free space on the fire escape before hiding her face behind her hands. Jack was still sitting down, half-draped in blankets and fully stunned. Her voice dropped even lower. “I start thinking that it’s something I might actually _like_ to do with you. Someday.” She opened her eyes again and peeked at him through her fingers. His heart melted at how nervous she was. “But not for a very long time. There are too many things I want to do first, before… before I worry about all of that.”

Jack grabbed a bar on the side of the fire escape and pulled himself up to stand facing her. He made sure not to crowd her, though; he never wanted Katherine to feel hemmed in. “I’d like that, too, someday,” he said, his face solemn. “But only when you says so. I don’t want it until you do.” He reached out a hand to touch her and began to let it fall, but she grabbed it and pulled him in close. “I’ll stop teasin’ ya like that, too. I knew it got ya mad, but I didn’t know it was for real mad. I’m sorry. Forgive me?”

“For sure,” she said, pressing a kiss to his cheek. He looked at this delicate girl, an ineffable mixture of strength and uncertainty, and knew that, come what may, he wanted to be right by her side for the rest of his life, watching her slay giants on the days she felt invincible and loving her into courage on the days she felt weak. She looked up at him and a tender, hopeful smile spread across her face. “Thank you, Jack.”

“Ain’t nothin’ ta thank me for,” he said, scuffing his shoe on the fire escape to avoid the embarrassment of blushing again.

“Thank you for being you,” she said.

“Ain’t nobody else I could be, I don’t think.”

“Well, don't test that theory. I like you the way you are.”

He grinned. “You got it, Ace.” He brushed snow off of the curls that had escaped her knitted hat. “You best be off now, though. We don’t wanna worry your folks. You want I should walk you home, or just to City Hall to catch a cab?”

“City Hall is fine. I don’t want you out in the weather any longer than necessary.”

He chuckled. “Explain to me why we just spent the last three hours on the roof, then.”

“Oh, but you see, that was absolutely necessary,” she said wickedly. “I think you’d explode if you didn’t get to spend any time alone with me.”

“It’s possible,” he admitted. “Best not to risk it.”

“Oh, I agree,” she said with mock gravitas. “The last thing we want is for an exploding Jack Kelly to set fire to Lower Manhattan. Although the newsies could sell an awful lot of papers with that headline. I know how much you like to hawk stories about towering infernos.”

He rolled his eyes. “Ha, ha. Since when are you a comedian?”

“I’ll stop if you promise me not to sleep on the roof tonight,” she said, starting to back down the fire escape ladder.

He groaned and followed her down into the lodging house. “Not this again. I'm fine once I bundle up.”

“I mean it, Jack, you’ll catch your death sleeping outside, even with those extra blankets.” She was whispering now, trying not to wake the newsies in the bedrooms on either side of the dark lodging house hallways.

“I’ll catch my death from not bein’ able to sleep on account of all these coughin’ newsies, more’s like it,” he said, his words nearly drowned out by a series of deep-chested barks coming from the room to their left.

“Just sleep as far away from Romeo as possible and put your head under your pillow.”

“I ain’t got no pillow.”

She gave an exasperated sigh. “Jack, I’ll get you a pillow. Tomorrow. Just sleep inside, alright?”

“Fine,” he said, drawing the word out into a whiny G-flat.

“Good. Now, Mr. Kelly, would you do me the honor of escorting me to City Hall, please?”

“With pleasure, Miss Plumber.” He held out an arm for her to hold, and they headed out into the snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter was supposed to end with the house fire (which is something that really happened, as I learned while doing research for a different story, and stumbling across that bit of information is why I am now writing this story), but I got distracted by Jack and Katherine because I LOVE THEM SO MUCH. So this basically ended up being a 2000 word taster fic. Oops. The plot will pick up in the next chapter, I promise! (...no, really! There is a plot, I swear it!)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Katherine escapes a burning building.

It was very nearly midnight by the time Katherine got home; she always forgot how much longer it took to walk or drive anywhere when it was snowing. She slipped in through the back door, hoping her mother had gone to sleep already. At least her father was away on a business trip, so there was no need to worry about catching any grief from him over her late night. She’d have her hands full enough with her mother, she was sure. Kate Davis Pulitzer was usually easier for Katherine to handle than Joseph Pulitzer, but she was more concerned about Katherine’s increasingly erratic work schedule than her husband was, and so she was more suspicious that ‘work’ was simply a cover for something else. Something illicit. Something like Jack.

Katherine tiptoed up the main stairway, careful to place her feet as close to the edge of the steps as possible, where they were less likely to creak under her weight. Her bedroom was in sight, she was nearly there, she was opening the door, she’d made it, and—

“Hello, Katherine.”

Katherine flicked the switch in her room and winced to see her mother, clad in a nightgown and with a full head of curlers, sitting on the four-poster bed. “Hello, Mama.”

“It’s past midnight.”

Katherine thought about protesting, saying that it was only 11:55, she hadn’t missed curfew, but she knew from experience that it didn’t matter. Her parents’ so-called rules were just general guidelines for behavior; the actual rules in the Pulitzer household were entirely dependent on her parents’ moods. Either you tailored yourself to those moods, or you fought back hard enough to win Joseph and Kate to your side. And Katherine was too tired to fight. She bought herself some time by closing the door and hanging up her coat and hat. “I’m sorry. Newspaper work makes for long days.” 

“Does it, though?” Even in slippered feet and a sleep mask, Kate Pulitzer struck the fear of God into her daughter. Katherine stayed silent. “Because I called your editor, and he said you left the office at eight.”

Katherine’s blood ran cold. “I’m a reporter, Mama. I have to talk to sources outside of the office sometimes.”

“He also said you didn’t have any assignments at present.” 

“A good reporter looks for news before it’s handed to her.” 

Her mother gave a short bark of laughter. “You inherited that reporter’s instinct from both sides, then, because you certainly didn’t hand this news to me. I’m going to give you one last chance to come clean, Katherine, or there will be consequences.” 

The blood drained from Katherine’s face. This was it, then. Her mother had found out about Jack, and she would tell her father, and her father would force them to end things. Or maybe she was overreacting; maybe her staunchly Episcopalian mother had found out that Katherine had started attending the occasional Wednesday night service at Calvary Baptist Church. Or maybe the cook had finally ratted her out for raiding the pantry every couple of weeks to bring canned goods to soup kitchens on the Lower East Side. Or perhaps she’d caught wind of Katherine’s habit of meeting Bill Hearst to debate journalism's role in advocating for social reform (Katherine tended to be an activist; Bill favored reporting straight facts and leaving the public to decide). In short, Katherine could have done any number of things to displease her mother, and she wasn’t going to be tricked into outing her relationship with Jack. 

She widened her eyes to affect an air of innocence. “I don’t know what you mean. I’ve been working. I’ll show you my notes if you like.” 

Kate frowned. “I know you’ve been seeing that newsboy.”

Damn. So this was about Jack, after all. She stayed quiet.

“Well, I’m glad you’ve got the good sense not to deny it. I just wish you’d had the sense not to do it in the first place.” 

“He’s a good man, Mama. If you’d let me introduce you to him, you’d see that.”

“I don’t need an introduction to judge his measure, Katherine. No penniless newsboy will ever be worthy of a Davis Pulitzer. Especially not _this_ penniless newsboy. He’s an Irish Catholic, for pity’s sake! That’s the very definition of heathen street filth. And even if he were suitable, which he most certainly isn’t, he is still a man, and you are visiting him in the slums, at night, unchaperoned. You have been risking your reputation and the good name of this family by consorting with trash. It’s unacceptable behavior, and it ends tonight.”

Katherine’s nostrils flared and her eyes were so misted over with rage that she could hardly see. “Get out.” 

Kate rose from the bed and smoothed out the folds in her nightgown. She must have been waiting a while for Katherine to arrive, because her knees creaked as she stood up. “I forbid you to see him again.”

“And I forbid you to talk about him like that,” Katherine snapped. “Out. Now.” 

“Don’t test me, Kitty.” Kate Pulitzer’s eyes glittered like the ice that had caused Katherine to be so late coming home in the first place. “As soon as your father gets back from New Jersey, I will inform him of your disgraceful behavior and counsel him to fire the gutter rat unless you see reason and break things off. It won’t take long for your father to find a new political cartoonist; how long do you think it will take your Irishman to find gainful employment, especially without references?”

Katherine ground her teeth together. She flung the bedroom door open and held it until her mother left, head held high in certainty that she was doing the right thing for her impetuous daughter. Kate had hardly crossed the threshold of the bedroom when Katherine slammed the door behind her with as much force as she could possibly muster, rattling the doorframe and nearly causing an antique vase on her sideboard to fall and shatter.

She flopped facedown onto her bed, not even bothering to change out of her damp clothes or crawl under the down coverlet. She was so angry that she couldn’t think, and she decided that she would hold onto that fury for as long as she could, because once her mind clicked back on, it would be impossible to ignore the sickening fear that was settling in her stomach. She had no idea how she could save her relationship with Jack without costing him his job, and she refused to shove him back into abject poverty. That was not an option. The thought of leaving him, though, of leading a life without his roguish charm and his unwavering belief in her, left her so distressed that she became more and more convinced that none of this was real. These thoughts weren't real, she didn't actually exist, her parents were whispered memories of things that had never happened, and Jack was a fever dream. Her body felt so immaterial all of a sudden that she made a desperate grab for reality by gripping the satin sheets as tightly as she could and screaming her rage into the mattress. She was real. This was real. Losing Jack was real. And there was nothing she could do to fix it. 

***

She must have fallen asleep like that, because the next thing she knew, she was coughing uncontrollably and her eyelids felt raw and heavy. Her room smelled acrid, like hot metal mixed with burning wool, and the air was thick. _Oh no_. She knew exactly what was going on—the Pulitzer mansion had caught fire twice last year, and she’d reported on enough tenement blazes to recognize the smells and signs of a house fire. She leapt out of bed and dragged her coverlet with her so that she could use it to shield her body from flames. She paused to feel the door—if it were hot to the touch, then there’d be no escaping that way, and she’d have to risk jumping from her second story window. The door was cool, though, thank heavens, so she bundled herself in her coverlet, crouched down low to avoid the worst of the smoke, and opened the door. 

It was hard to tell where it was safe to go and where it wasn’t—the hallway was so clogged with dark smoke that her eyes began streaming immediately. She crawled towards the stairs as quickly as possible, but there her luck ran out. The banister was already afire, and the flames were licking at the edges of the wooden steps. She started praying silently, asking God to let her survive this, just let her make it out, she wasn’t ready to die yet, she had too much to do, too much to fix, too much to live for. Clutching her coverlet closer to her, she raced down the stairs. A section of the burning teakwood banister toppled over and hit her squarely in the side, causing her to slip and side down the rest of the staircase. She was too terrified to feel pain; all she knew was that she’d found a faster way down the stairs, and that was a blessing.

The smoke was thinner up ahead—that must be the door to the outside. She dashed forward, her lungs spasming in protest. And then she was out, she was on the sidewalk, she was safe. Two firefighters raced over to drag the coverlet off her and force her onto the ground, where they smothered her with their bodies. Once she realized what was going on, she was grateful that they’d squeezed half the breath out of her. She certainly hadn't noticed that the hem of her dress and the ends of her curls were on fire, so it was a good thing that they had. As soon as she was out of danger, they hurried off to do whatever it was that firefighters did at fires--Katherine had no idea what that was, and she couldn’t bring herself to care. She simply watched the mansion burn, simultaneously horrified and fascinated by the dancing flames and the contrast of the charred wood against the fresh white snow. 

She leapt to her feet when she saw her mother stumble out onto the street, shielded protectively by their houseman, James Kane, and followed by Katherine’s two sisters, Constance and Edith, and her youngest brother, Herbert. Their bedrooms were all on the third floor; she doubted that any of the servants on the higher floors would make it out alive. 

“Katherine!” Her mother, barefoot and still in nightgown and curlers, raced over to hug her daughter. “You’re safe!” She squeezed Katherine tightly around the middle, and Katherine shrieked in pain. Her mother let go instantly and clapped her hands to her mouth, eyes wild.

Katherine wasn't sure why her mother was upset. She'd yelled, but everyone yelled sometimes, didn't they? Or maybe they didn't. Maybe it was unladylike to yell when your house was burning down? Or maybe her mother thought she was hurt. She wasn't hurt, she was fine, and she'd tell her mother so just as soon as the pain in her side stopped swallowing all of the words she wanted to say. Come on, Katherine, look how scared she is. Fix that. Find some words. Maybe these words? Are these the right words? “I’m fine, Mama, it’s okay. And you’re fine, too, and so are Constance and Edith and Herbert, and look, you even saved your curlers! Curlers are important.” Katherine wasn’t even sure what she was saying; the agony shooting through her left side made it impossible to think straight. But her mother still looked scared, so she kept talking. “Don’t worry, I just got hit by some falling wood and slipped down the stairs, that’s all, you know those stairs are slippery, and it’s okay, I’m not burning anymore because the firemen put me out, and you hate me anyway so you don’t mind, and I don’t mind either, because fires sell papers, Mama, and so Father will be pleased…” Why didn’t her mother look reassured? Everything was fine, honestly, look how pretty the fire was against the sunrise, and where was her notebook, she should take notes and write up an article on it, and, oh, “Where’s Jack? I have to tell him about this, I have to show him my hair, look, it’s singed right off at the bottom, what an awful way to get a haircut, it's burned right off, isn’t that funny?” She started to laugh hysterically.

Kate gave her daughter a stunned look and then grabbed to catch her as Katherine fainted dead away. “Someone call a doctor!” She yelled, cradling her daughter’s limp form against her body. “Hurry! Please!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes: 
> 
> Pulitzer’s mansion burned down at 7:30am on January 9, 1900 (which was a Monday, but that won’t work for the internal logic of my story, so I’m changing it to Saturday, FYI). The mansion, which the fire chief had warned him was a fire hazard (the house had already had two fires start there from 1898-1899), was located on East 55th Street. Pulitzer and two of his sons weren’t home at the time; one was attending Harvard, and the other was with Pulitzer in New Jersey, perhaps on business; the source I was looking at didn't say. His wife, Kate, and the three other children, Herbert, Constance, and Edith, barely escaped down the main staircase. The houseman, James Kane, wrapped Mrs. Pulitzer in a curtain and helped her reach safety. She was indeed barefoot and in her nightclothes. The Pulitzer family’s governess and Mrs. Pulitzer’s companion died in the fire.
> 
> According to what I found on the internet, the first sleep mask was patented in 1875 by a milliner and dressmaker named Helen Rowley. They were really creepy looking. Kinda like those sketchy white hockey masks that teenage boys wear on Halloween when they’re too lazy to put an actual costume together.
> 
> Anti-Irish sentiment did still exist in 1900 (I don't know if Mrs. Pulitzer was actually prejudiced in that way), but it was by no means as virulent in as it had been in the 1840s-1870s, when millions of Irish citizens fled to the US in order to escape the Potato Famine. These immigrants were subjected to extensive discrimination -- they were viewed as inherently brutish and ignorant, many employers refused to hire Irish workers (placing signs in the window saying "No Irish Need Apply"), some Irish immigrants in Massachusetts were deported because they were said to have put a strain on the welfare system, others had their homes burned to the ground by angry mobs, and so on. These anti-Irish prejudices were also linked to strong anti-Catholic prejudices. For example, in 1854, a mob tarred and feathered a Catholic priest in Maine. Around this time, a xenophobic political party called the "Know-Nothings" was formed and gave shape to anti-immigrant and anti-Catholic views. Their rallying cry was "Americans must rule America," and of course the Know-Nothings were adamant that immigrants and Catholics weren't Americans, so they had to go.
> 
> Non-historical notes:
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, I hope you liked it, and please do let me know what you think! I live for comments :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the newsboys hope for a good headline and then wish they hadn't.

Sunday morning dawned crisp and clear, the snow having stopped sometime in the wee hours of the night. Jack had kept his promise to Katherine and slept indoors for once, and although it hadn’t necessarily made for a better night’s sleep because of all the coughing and wheezing that echoed up and down the hallways, he had to admit that he woke up feeling less stiff than usual. He didn't sleep very long, though; Jack had always been an early riser in a profession of early risers, and so, as usual, he took it upon himself to make sure the other boys woke up on time. On days like this, when Crutchie slept later than Jack, Jack woke his friend with a soft hand to the shoulder and a low “G’morning, Crutchie. Time ta rise an’ shine.”

“Hiya, Jack,” said Crutchie, stretching his arms and giving a sleepy smile. “Ready ta take on the world?”

“Gotta take on all these sleepy newsies first,” Jack said, socking Crutchie in the arm. “See ya out there, alright?”

“Yeah. Save me a spot in the line if I gets there late?”

“Sure thing. Sidewalks oughta be pretty clear, though; I don’t think it snowed enough last night ta give ya trouble.” Jack adjusted his newsboy's cap and moved from one room to the next, waking up at least one boy in every bedroom. He woke JoJo with a series of light pats on the chest, flicked Race’s ear and laughed wickedly at Race’s answering yell, and ruffled Buttons’ hair (the only part of Buttons that was ever visible above his blanket). The first boy awake in a room always took it upon himself to make as much noise as possible to wake the others, or, in the case of Finch, to open the window, scrape fresh snow off the sill, and mold the soft powder into slingshot ammunition for firing at his sleeping bunkmates. 

“Are ya kiddin’ me, Finch?! I done told ya I hates wakin’ up ta snow in my mug,” Blink yelled. 

“Yeah, well, I hates wakin’ up ta yer lousy snorin’, so I guess we’s both havin’ rotten mornings.” Unrepentant, Finch scooped even more snow off the windowsill and loosed a series of shots at Blink, who ran straight towards him and grabbed him in a headlock. Ike and Mush took advantage of the pause in Finch’s reign of terror to grab the soggy stacks of winter clothes they’d left crumpled by the bed the night before and ran out into the hallway to get dressed there instead. 

“C’mon boys, let’s go! Don’t wanna miss the Sunday church rush!” Jack called, already heading out the door to the circulation office. A gaggle of boys streamed after him, gleefully slinging snowballs every which way and wrestling each other into slushy snowbanks. They’d be exhausted come nightfall, Jack knew, but he was happy that right now they had the energy for horseplay. They seemed strong; maybe they’d get through January without anyone else getting too sick.

When Jack arrived at the circulation desk, Davey was already waiting outside for the gates to open. He was squatting down and retying Les’ bright red scarf, which tended to unwind with the little boy’s constant running and skipping. Spotting Jack, Les tugged away from Davey and ran to hug his idol. “Jack! You came!”

“It’s Sunday, kiddo. I’m always here on Sunday. Lemme finish tyin’ that scarf for ya, alright? Your fake coughs are good enough ta sell papes, ya don’t need ta catch a real one.” He bent down, knotted the scarf securely around Les’ neck, and patted the boy's shoulder. “There. That’ll do ya for a while.”

 By this time Davey had come over to them, and he clapped Jack firmly on the back. “Hi, Jack. Good to see you. How’s life on the other side of the paper?”

“Not bad, not bad—kickin’ around a few ideas for my cartoons this week, a couple oughta be punchy enough what you can sell papes with ‘em.” They walked back to the circulation gate, and Jack adjusted his mittens so that he could hang from the gate without his hands poking through the frayed yarn and touching the cold metal. “An’ you? How’s sellin’? How’s your pops?”

Davey shrugged. “Same old, same old on both fronts. Cold weather isn’t helping him heal any faster, and news has been kinda slow lately, too. We sure could use those snappy cartoons of yours.” He scuffed his shoe in the snow. “It’s too bad they don’t let you write the headlines; we’d sell a lot more papes if the suits at the news desk had your knack for a turn of phrase.” 

“You bet your boots we’d sell more papes with me in charge of the front page! Writin’ headlines is an art, an’ we all knows I’m the best artist Joe Pulitzer’s got on his payroll.” He tipped his cap up a fraction of an inch. “An’ the best lookin’, too.”

Davey rolled his eyes and smiled. “I think Romeo would fight you on that one. How is he, by the way?”

Now it was Jack’s turn to shrug. “We all thinks it’s pneumonia, but he’s too scared to ask for a doctor. Not like he could afford one, anyway. We’d have ta pool for it, an’ he ain’t let us do that yet.” 

“Well, he's being dumb, so we should do it anyway.” Davey pulled a sheet of paper and a pencil stub out of his coat pocket. “Let’s see, if every newsboy chips in about ten cents…” Balancing on his right leg, he laid the paper on his left thigh to do some quick calculations. “Yeah, that oughta cover a house call, medicine, and a follow-up visit. I’ll fetch a doctor once I’ve sold all my papes and spot the rest of the boys for their contributions, if you think they’ll agree to help out?” 

“Course they will,” Jack said, giving a firm nod. “We’s a family, after all. Thanks for takin’ care of this, Davey.”

“All for one,” Davey said.

“And one for all,” Jack answered with a grin.

By this time, the other newsboys had straggled to Newsie Square and were hanging onto the gate with Jack, Davey, and Les, shifting and hopping in place in anticipation of the headline (and to ward off the cold).

“We could do with a good disaster headline,” Race said, somehow managing to get the words around the fat cigar jammed between his lips.

“Maybe pipes burst somewheres important last night,” Elmer said hopefully.

Albert smacked Elmer upside the head. “What, so we gets a headline like ‘Basement Floods, Freezes, Forms Indoor Ice Rink’?" He snorted. "Real catchy, Elmer, I’d like ta see ya try ta sell even ten papes offa that.” 

“Quiet!” A chorus of shushing noises came from all the newsies as Mr. Weisel came out to chalk up the day’s headline. 

“Five-Alarm Fire…” Crutchie began reading out loud. His next words were drowned out by a loud cheer from all the boys, who began jumping around, hooting and hollering, and slapping each other on the back.

“We’re gonna eat well tonight, boys!” Specs announced, tossing his woolen cap into the air. 

“An’ wouldja look at that picture!” Sniper crowed, flinging an arm around Mush. “That’s a towerin’ inferno if ever I seen one. Not gonna need ta use your imagination to sell papes today, eh, Jack?” 

Jack didn’t reply. He was completely frozen, clinging to the gates as if they were all that was keeping him afloat in a raging storm that only he could see. His eyes flicked rapidly back and forth, reading the headline again, and again, and again. _Five-Alarm Fire Destroys Pulitzer Mansion. Fatalities Reported._ No. No, no, _no_ , it couldn’t be real, this wasn’t happening, this was a mistake, a cruel prank from the news desk—his life was supposed to be looking up, wasn’t it? This was something that would’ve happened to the old Jack, but things were different now. Things like this weren’t allowed to happen now. Not to him. Not anymore. 

“…Jack? Jack?”

He felt someone grip his forearm, and as the roaring in his ears began to ebb, he realized that someone was calling his name. He blinked.

“Jack! Can you hear me?” 

He turned his head to see someone looking at him with concern. Davey. _Oh. Davey. That’s Davey. You know Davey. He’s expecting you to say something. Say something_. Davey was flanked by the other newsboys, all of whom had gone as still and silent as the snow. And every last one of them was staring at Jack. Jack averted his eyes and wrested his arm away from Davey. “I… I have to go.” 

“Jack, wait!” On some level, Jack registered Davey’s desperate call and the rising voices of the other newsboys, who by now had finally read and understood the full headline. He heard their feet slapping on the slushy pavement behind him, too, their calls to stop, wait, just hold up and listen, Jackie, come on, but he was flying now, propelled by sheer terror, trying desperately to outrun the wave of grief that would swallow him whole if he paused for even a second, and he knew that none of the boys would catch him. No one caught Jack Kelly unless he let himself be caught, and he wasn’t sure he’d let anyone catch him ever again. Katherine had caught him, had held him; had loved him, even, and look where that had gotten him. And her. No. No more.

He was certain she was dead; the intuition he’d developed over years of tough luck, hard knocks, and loneliness couldn’t be overridden by the comfort of a few good months. But even though he felt in his gut that he would never see Katherine again, he needed to see the house for himself. Davey would have probably counseled him against it, asking what good it would do to see the broken skeleton of the Pulitzer mansion, but even though Jack couldn’t have answered that question, he kept running through Manhattan, hitching a ride on the back of carriages when possible, moving as fast as he could to East 55th.

Seeing Katherine’s home in person, charred and gutted, was even worse than seeing it on the front page of _The World_. Newspapers lied; reality didn’t. And the message here was loud and clear: Jack’s life would never be the same. 

He was far from the only person goggling at the ruined mansion—a crowd of gossipy onlookers had gathered to watch the firemen pick through the wreckage and extinguish any lingering flames. “How awful,” Jack overheard a well-dressed lady saying to her friend. “Poor Kate, she must have been terrified. They say she escaped in her nightclothes, imagine that!” “Do you think she orders her nightclothes from Paris, too?” The other woman asked. “Oh, undoubtedly. She’s so particular about her wardrobe… of course, it’s all gone now…” The women made sympathetic clucking noises and moved out of earshot. Jack, his gaze still focused completely on the blackened shell of the house, disregarded all the conversation about nightclothes and latched onto the fact that Mrs. Pulitzer had survived. At least one person had made it out of this house alive. Maybe Katherine had, too.

“Excuse me,” he said, turning to a smartly dressed man nearby, “Do you know if the Pulitzer children escaped?”

“The fire department’s not naming any names of casualties or survivors yet,” he replied. “But I heard tell that they brought out at least two stretchers with bodies on them. The corpses were covered up, of course, as is only proper, but," he said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "One of the body's hands flopped out from under the sheet, and it was wearing a very feminine ring.” 

“And the other body?” 

“No idea.” 

“Thank you.” Jack wrestled with whether or not to allow himself to hope. Katherine didn’t wear a ring, but that didn’t mean that the other body wasn’t hers. Only two bodies had been brought out of the house, which had a domestic staff of nineteen or more, but maybe there were other bodies that the firemen had yet to find. Or maybe Katherine was alive, but she was battling severe injuries. He needed more information. 

He went from person to person in the crowd, asking for rumors and facts, and he even pushed his way up to the firemen’s makeshift barricade around the scene to yell questions at them as they cleared away rubble. They acted as if they couldn't hear him, even though he knew his voice was impossible to ignore. He wasn't the best-selling newsie in Manhattan for nothing, after all. He made to jump the wooden fencing and badger them face to face, but a tall, meaty fireman came up behind him and shoved him back towards the street. “Get outta here, kid. The news’ll be in the papers tomorrow. You can read about it then, just like anyone else.” 

“But I’m the one writin’ the news! I’m a reporter at _The World_!” Jack drew himself up to his full height and wished he were wearing his office clothes instead of his newsie clothes. 

The man snorted. “Yeah, an’ I’m the King of England. Scram, or I’ll call the cops on ya.” 

Jack looked the fireman up and down. The man had a good six inches of height on Jack, not to mention seventy pounds. Maybe more. He didn’t look like he knew much, anyway. The firemen who were still here so long after the fire were the cleanup crew; they wouldn’t have the information Jack needed. So he’d have to act like the reporter he’d claimed to be and go sniff out the answers on his own. Right, then. Push down the panic and go look for Katherine. Or her body. _No. For Katherine. Look for Katherine._ He was looking for Katherine, whole and unharmed. And he would find her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes: 
> 
> Five-alarm fires are a pretty big deal; I don't know how big a fire has to be to merit 21 engine companies coming out to deal with it, but maybe rich people get more fire engines regardless? Or maybe if you're Joseph Pulitzer then firefighters really care about your house? No idea. Just go with it, I guess. The 'alarm' part of a five-alarm fire comes from pull station alarms that were used to alert the fire department to the location and intensity of a fire. This system was invented in the 1850s.
> 
> There were 19 domestic staff members home at the time of fire.
> 
> Non-historical notes:
> 
> You guys are the best, seriously. Thank you *so* much for the consistent kudos and comments (especially the comments)-- they keep me excited about writing this fic. 
> 
> I hope you're enjoying it so far!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jack embarks on a grand tour of Manhattan hospitals.

Jack looked up at the tall red brick tower of the Presbyterian Hospital on Madison and East 70th. He figured that if they’d brought Katherine to a hospital, this would be the farthest north they’d have gone, so this was where he was starting his search. And if Katherine weren’t here, then he’d work his way through every hospital between here and Battery Park. He steeled himself for what might wait behind the imposing glass doors, pushed his way into the lobby, and strode straight to the receptionist’s desk. The middle-aged woman sitting behind the desk, her brown hair swept up into a tight bun, pushed her glasses up slightly and gave him a nod.

He belatedly swept his newsboy cap off his head and hoped the woman would overlook his shabby coat. “Excuse me, Ma'am. I’m here to visit a friend; would you be able to tell me her room number, please?” He did his best to sound like someone who could theoretically be friends with the Pulitzers, and, despite his lack of talent as a mimic, he managed to smooth out the broadest tells of his accent. Of course, this left him sounding oddly stilted, as his over-pronounced vowels and effortful r’s made it quite clear to the receptionist that, whatever Jack was, a wealthy New Yorker he was not.

“I’m afraid we only give out patient information to family members, sir. I can’t help you.”

“Oh, but she asked me to visit,” he fibbed. “We-- ah, that is, our families are old friends, so she’s like a sister to me.”

“I’m very sorry, but since she’s not your actual sister, I can’t help you.”

“But if I had her room number no one would stop me from going up, would they?”

 “No, I suppose not.”

“So maybe you could pretend I already have the room number and I just stopped ta ask for directions?” He flashed his most winning smile at her and hoped against hope that someone her age would find him just as charming as the tenement girls he’d grown up with.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, sir. I would advise you to contact the family and ask one of them to escort you to the room personally.”

He reached to adjust his newsboy’s cap, forgetting he’d shoved it into a coat pocket, and awkwardly turned the motion into an attempt at smoothing out his hair. “Sure, sure. They’re all here at the hospital, though—would you be able to place a call to the room for me?”

“Certainly, sir. May I have the last name of the patient, please?” 

“Plum—no, sorry, Pulitzer.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Is this some sort of prank?”

 Jack’s eyes widened. “No, no, Plummy is my nickname for my friend, she, uh, she… likes to eat plums,” he finished lamely.

The receptionist was obviously unconvinced, but she began flipping through the admittance records anyway.

 After several pages, she looked back up at Jack, her eyes narrowed. “Pulitzer, you said?”

“Yes, that’s right. P-U-L—“

“We have no patient by the name of Pulitzer here.”

“Are you sure?”

“I think you’ve taken up enough of my time on what is clearly a wild goose chase. I’m going to have to ask you leave. Immediately.”

Jack pulled himself up to his full height and jammed his cap back on his head. “Ya ain’t gotta be snotty about it! I’m just tryin’ ta find my friend, it ain’t my fault they told me the wrong hospital.” He spun on his heel and stalked back outside. But he’d gotten the information he needed; now he just needed to repeat the performance until he hit pay dirt.

Mount Sinai on Lexington Avenue was next on his list, but he hit a dead end there, too. No luck at the Hospital for Special Surgery or at Bellevue, either. He ignored his growling stomach and the tension headache that was squeezing his head and soldiered on through the New York Infirmary, the New York Post-Graduate Hospital, and Beth Israel, striking out every single time. It was late afternoon by the time he reached the last hospital in Lower Manhattan: Roosevelt Hospital.

Although the hospital was named for one of the Governor’s distant relations rather than the big man himself, Jack thought the name was a good sign. He hoped that Roosevelt would come through for him again today. The receptionist here was a slim younger man with a shock of red hair, who nodded politely at Jack as he approached the desk. “How can I help you, sir?” 

“I’m looking for my sister. She’s been in an accident, and I think she might have been brought here. Would you be able to tell me if she’s been admitted today?”

“Of course. Last name, please?”

“Pulitzer.”

The clerk did a double-take. “ _That_ Pulitzer?”

“Yes. I’m Ralph,” he said, extending his hand to shake. The clerk looked suspiciously at Jack’s work-worn hands and battered coat and flipped the admittance book closed.

“I don’t believe you.”

“What do you mean, you don’t believe me?”

“There’s no way you’re a Pulitzer,” he said, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe his hand off. “Look at you. Listen to you. No way.”

Jack stiffened. “You think I ain’t good enough to be a Pulitzer?” He unconsciously clenched his fists and began to raise his arms into a fighting stance.

“No. You’re not. Can you even hear your accent? You’re low class, boyo, and you need to leave.” 

Even on Jack’s best days, his pride and recklessness would have goaded him into action at such a callous brushoff. And this was far from being one of Jack’s best days. He unleashed his anger and his accent with full force, clocking the man right in the face and snarling, “I ain’t leavin’ until I finds Katherine, ya uppity bastard, an' there ain't no way in hell I'm lettin' you call me low class.” He vaulted over the low desk, snatched the admittance book, and ran down the main hallway of the hospital, turning down side wings and racing up stairs until he came to his senses (such as they were) and realized that no one was following him. He also realized that he was lost inside the hospital, but he’d deal with that later. 

Panting, Jack sagged against the wall and slid to the ground. He leaned his head back so that he was looking at the ceiling and clutched the book to his chest. “Please be in here, Ace, please.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Don’t… don’t make me start lookin’ for ya in the morgues. I ain’t strong enough for that.” He squeezed his eyes shut and worked his jaw to keep from crying.

After a few moments, he’d gained his composure enough to begin flipping the pages, scanning each page for any last name that started with a P. His fingers were trembling so violently that he tore several pages and gave himself more than one paper cut, but he didn’t notice. And even though he was now scanning entry records from several weeks ago, he kept at it. Maybe the pages were out of order, maybe someone had missed a line on an earlier sheet and gone back to fill it in with Katherine’s name so as not to waste paper, maybe if he wished hard enough then she’d be here for him to find.

But of course she wasn’t.

Jack swallowed the lump in his throat, shrugged off his coat, stuffed his cap into his pocket, and tossed the book to the floor. He doubted that the man at the front desk would recognize him if he left the hospital clad in his blue button-down and gray waistcoat rather than the ratty jacket he’d worn coming in. Snobs like that never looked too closely at faces.

 And Jack was right; the receptionist didn’t even give him a second glance as he left the hospital. He tugged his hat and coat on as soon as he exited the building and rounded the corner; he couldn’t get sick and risk passing anything on to Katherine if he found her. ... _When_ he found her. Where to now, though? The hospitals had been a dead end, and he refused to check the morgues. He wasn’t ready for that yet. He stopped abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk, causing several distracted passers-by to bump into him and curse him loudly, and then he turned on his heel to head back uptown. There was one more lead he’d check out, and if that didn’t work… well, he’d deal with that problem later. 

William Randolph Hearst’s house was just as stately as Jack expected it to be. He jogged up the stairs to the doorman and doffed his cap. “Good afternoon. I’m here to see Bill Hearst, Jr., please.”

The doorman looked him over and sniffed. “Not lookin’ like that, ya ain’t.”

Jack bristled, and his accent came flooding back. “Whaddya mean, lookin’ like this? Ya gots a problem with my face, ya scummer?” 

“Yeah, I do. I ain’t lettin’ no guttersnipe like you inta Mr. Hearst’s house. Ya ain't fit ta see no Billy Senior nor Billy Junior.”

“Look, Bill knows me, we’s friends—he did me a solid last summer an’ I was hopin’ he could do me another.”

“A beggar, eh? Scram, kid, we don’t want no charity cases around here.”

“No, it ain’t like that, it’s—” But Jack didn’t get a chance to finish, because the doorman backhanded him across the face, sending him staggering down the stairs. He managed not to topple down them, but it was hardly a dignified retreat. Jack shot the doorman a nasty look and rolled his shoulders, weighing whether or not to punch back. He was desperate for a good fight, for something all-consuming and physical to calm his mind. Jack’s old man had turned to drink to deal with his demons; Jack much preferred to unleash those demons on someone else, someone he figured deserved them more than he did. And as far as Jack was concerned, the doorman fell into that category.

But as low as Jack felt, his goal was to find Katherine. And punching the doorman wouldn’t help him do that. Even if Jack whupped the doorman from here to next Sunday (which he was pretty sure he would), he still wouldn’t get in the door to see Bill. And if someone walked by and saw them scuffling, they might call the cops and get him tossed in the clink. _Not worth it, Jack. Go find Katherine_. 

Jack stooped to pick up his newsboy’s cap before leaving and saw fresh drops of blood in the snow. _Aw, man._ He tested his mouth with his tongue and realized the slap had split his lower lip. Probing at his lip with his fingers, he sucked in his breath when he hit a tender spot, turning around to give the doorman an animalistic growl. Jack still wasn’t going to fight the man, though. Katherine was more important. Jack swore at the doorman under his breath, hunched his shoulders, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and strode away from the Randolph Hearst mansion.

Of course, he had no idea what to do or where to go now that he'd exhausted all his leads, but there was no way he was going home until he’d found Katherine. So he wandered up and down the streets of New York, staying far away from the remains of the Pulitzer’s mansion and even farther from the newsies’ lodging house. He couldn’t face the boys and their pity right now. As he continued downtown, he licked away the fresh blood that had welled up on his lip and dabbed at the cut with his dirty mitten. He was oddly grateful for the pain; it made for a nice distraction from his thoughts, which were becoming harder to escape. When he’d been going from hospital to hospital, he’d had a plan and a procedure and a little bit of hope, but now he felt adrift, like the snowflakes he and Katherine had watched swirling through the darkness last night. 

Jack switched off his brain and went on autopilot, habit drawing him towards The World building for his Sunday evening illustration shift. He was jolted out of this routine by the din of church bells, though, as the whole of New York seemed to be ringing a joyful chorus for evening mass. He paused and looked up from his feet to see that he was directly in front of St. Andrew’s Church. Jack brushed his nose and took a deep breath. He’d been baptized Catholic but never confirmed; his mother had been the religious one in the family, and when she’d died, Jack’s father hadn’t seen fit to continue taking his young son to mass every week. They’d go for Christmas and Easter most years, and sometimes they'd go for Jack’s name day, too, but it wasn't something that Jack could count on. Besides, his father could never remember if Jack's name day was the feast day of St. John the Baptist or St. John the Apostle, and so it was easiest to forget the whole thing altogether.

Jack was more to blame for his lack of church attendance than his father was, though; Jack had been mostly independent from the age of eight, and he still hadn’t been inside a church in years. He’d relied on food from the Sisters of Mercy for nearly a decade now, yes, but they either ministered to the newsboys in front of the church or at the lodging house itself. And since he could benefit from the Sisters even without attending church, he'd seen no need to take Holy Communion or recite the liturgy or observe Lent. But now he found himself with a deep-seated longing to sit in a wooden pew, smell the incense, kneel in corporate prayer, and find comfort in the enveloping faith and devotion of others. And so he removed his cap, smoothed out his hair, and climbed the steps into church. _Please, God. Please let Katherine live._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> The telephone was invented in 1876. I'm guessing they had them in hospitals, but I don't think they'd have been available in patients' rooms yet!
> 
> The first hospital Jack goes to, Presbyterian Hospital, opened its doors in 1872 and has expanded over the years, eventually merging with New York Hospital to form New York-Presbyterian Hospital (what a creative name). All of the other hospitals named in the fic opened their doors at some point in the 1800s, as well, and nearly all of them still exist today, too, although some have undergone name changes and mergers. A couple of them began as explicitly Jewish hospitals; in the case of Mount Sinai, which was founded in 1852, this was because many of the hospitals in NYC that existed in the mid-1800s refused to accept Jewish patients or hire Jewish workers. Beth Israel was founded later, in 1890, and at that time, many hospitals in NYC didn't serve immigrants who had been in the country for less than a year. Beth Israel catered to the local Jewish community in general, but to recent Jewish immigrants in particular. (The things I'm learning while writing this fic... geez.) From what I read, it seems like Mount Sinai was no longer exclusively Jewish by 1900, but Beth Israel probably was, and so it wouldn't have been a real option for Katherine, but... whatever. Also, I made sure that Jack visited only the hospitals on the East side of Manhattan that were within a certain range of the Pulitzer’s mansion. And, in a testament to my intermittent and ridiculous meticulousness, he does in fact visit them in order from northernmost to southernmost. :) 
> 
>  
> 
> Much love & many thanks to those of you reading, kudo-ing, and commenting! You guys are so lovely, for real. Thank you for always making my day.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Pulitzer parents take center stage.

Joseph Pulitzer stood at the threshold of the small bedroom, watching his oldest daughter sleep. The nurses he’d summoned to care for his family had sponge-bathed Katherine and tied her hair back in a loose ponytail that lay spread out behind her on the pillow. Her auburn curls, made even darker with sweat, emphasized just how pale and sickly she looked. 

“I dosed her with laudanum earlier, Mr. Pulitzer,” said the doctor, walking up to the doorway to stand behind the newspaper magnate. “She was restless and hysterical, and she needs sleep. I’ve instructed the nurses on how and when to give the next dosage.” 

Pulitzer remained focused on Katherine. “I’d like for you to show me how, too, Dr. Anderson.”

The doctor nodded. “Of course. The medicine is by her bedside, if you wouldn’t mind allowing me through.” Pulitzer stepped aside to let the doctor into the bedroom and listened attentively as the doctor walked him through administering the laudanum.

“And the rest of the family?” Pulitzer said, ushering the doctor out of Katherine’s room and closing the bedroom door softly behind them.

“In shock, but doing well. Edith’s burns are minor enough that I don’t expect them to scar, and Constance and Herbert suffered no physical injuries whatsoever. Your staff is to be commended for responding so quickly and carrying the little ones out.” By now they had reached the living room, and the doctor paused to rest his medical bag on the coffee table. “With the exception of your wife, they’ve all been given sleep aids to keep them calm and help them get the rest they need to recover. I expect Constance and Herbert to be perfectly fine by tomorrow, as long as they aren't exposed to anything upsetting.” He frowned thoughtfully. “I would advise keeping them away from Katherine’s room for the time being. Her condition might cause them to worry.”

“Is there need to worry?”

“At the present time, no. She did suffer the gravest injuries —broken ribs, heavy bruising, and a few lacerations on her left side— but time and rest will heal all of that.”

Pulitzer reached out and shook the doctor’s hand. “Thank you for your help, Doctor. I appreciate your willingness to come on such short notice, especially on a Sunday.”

“Of course, Mr. Pulitzer. A good doctor is ready for anything at any time. Not unlike a good newspaperman, I would assume.”

“Yes.” Pulitzer adjusted the cuffs of his shirt and asked, “And my wife? You said you hadn’t given her any laudanum?”

“No. She insisted on waiting until you arrived so that she could speak to you first.”

“And you judged that wise?” A disapproving note crept into Pulitzer’s voice.

“Your wife was fortunate to suffer very little harm in the fire. Her lungs sound inflamed, and she has some cuts on her feet that I have cleaned and bandaged, but all of that will resolve itself in a few days. I have left cough syrup with the nurses in case she needs it, and I recommend applying a hot poultice to her chest and having her drink plenty of tea to clear her lungs, but neither you nor she needs to be concerned about her future health.” He walked over to the coat rack and pulled on his long overcoat and top hat. “Your family was exceedingly lucky to escape with so little damage, Mr. Pulitzer. I cannot even begin to imagine the wealth you lost in the fire, but I hope you can take solace in the fact that the people most precious to you are safe.” 

“I do, I assure you." Pulitzer's voice was grave. "Even priceless things can be replaced with other, equally pleasing things, but people are never interchangeable.”

The doctor gave a slight bow. “Just so. I’ll stop by again in the evening to check on things, and of course you must call me if anyone takes a turn for the worse, but I expect everyone to make a full and swift recovery. I know this is a distressing situation, but please don't worry. Your family is in no danger.” 

“Thank you.” Once the doctor left, Pulitzer headed back to Katherine’s room. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen her so still. She was propped up in the bed so as to keep her ribs from hurting too much while she slept, and he half expected her to snap her eyes open and exclaim that she was late for work, she had a big article to write, she’d see her father for dinner but right now she had to run—there were sources to catch and stories to chase. But she simply laid there, small and silent, her only movement the slight rise and fall of her chest. 

“She looks so fragile, doesn’t she?” Kate Pulitzer stood next to her husband and slipped her hand into his. “I know the doctor says not to worry, but I can’t help it— _look_ at her, for heaven’s sake. That’s not the Katherine I know.”

“She’ll be alright, Kate,” Pulitzer said, reaching his free hand over to rub his wife’s arm soothingly. “Dr. Anderson is an excellent physician.”

“I know,” she said. “But even though she's nearly grown, she’s still my baby. And seeing her like this…” Kate began to weep. “It’s like Lucille all over again, Joseph. What if the doctor’s wrong? What if we lose her, too? I don’t think I’d survive it.” 

“Shhh, shhh.” He pulled his wife close and laid his head on her hair. “This isn’t at all like Lucille. Katherine’s fine. She’s had bruises and broken bones before, and that’s all this is.”

Kate was still crying, her chest juddering as her swollen lungs fought for air. “She thinks I hate her.” 

“What?” He pushed Kate back to look into her face. “No, she doesn’t. Why would you say that?”

“She told me so herself, just after we escaped from the fire. She saw that I was worried about her injuries, and she said not to worry, she was fine,”

“See that? She told you herself not to worry, so—”

“And then she said I wouldn’t mind even if she were hurt, because I hate her.” Kate collapsed onto Pulitzer’s chest again, sobbing in earnest now. “What if that’s the last thing she ever says to me? What if I never get the chance to remind her of how much I love her?”

Pulitzer rubbed circles on his wife’s back and made calming noises. “Don’t think such things. You’ll have plenty more conversations with Kitty, my dear. And I’m sure she didn’t mean what she said. She’s a teenager, after all, and you remember how awful Ralph was at that age. Besides, she was hurt and in shock; she probably didn’t even realize what she was saying.”

“It’s all my fault,” Kate whispered into his tweed waistcoat. “I found out that she’s dating that Kelly boy and told her if she didn’t end things with him then I’d make sure the boy lost his job.” She took a shaky breath. “What if our last conversation was a fight? What if her last clear memory of me is me threatening her?” Joseph Pulitzer bent down to kiss his wife’s head. “She needs to expend all the energy she has on getting well, and instead she’s having nightmares about her horrible mother, who’s making her choose between breaking her boyfriend’s heart and forcing him to starve.”

Pulitzer sighed and nuzzled his wife’s hair, the same glossy auburn as Katherine’s, trying to locate the familiar scent of jasmine underneath the heavy, acrid smell of the fire. “What nightmares? She’s sleeping peacefully, darling. Look at her.”

“You didn’t see her before the doctor arrived,” Kate protested. “She was raving like the madwomen they used to lock up on Blackwell’s Island.” She moved away from her husband and sank down into a chair at Katherine’s bedside. “If letting her step out with Kelly meant that she'd recover quickly, I’d make that trade in a heartbeat.”

“You can tell her that when she wakes up, then,” said Pulitzer, easing his wife up from the chair and guiding her down the hallway to her own bedroom. “Katherine will get well regardless, but if it will help you to tell her that you and I do not object to Kelly, then that’s what we’ll do.”

Kate gave him a weak but honest smile. “Thank you, Joseph. It’s… it’s been a most taxing day.” 

“That it has. So I want you to lie down and get some rest. I’ll have the nurse make up a compress to help your lungs, and I’ll sit by Katherine’s side while you sleep so that you know she’s in the best of hands.” He turned back the covers on the bed and helped his wife remove her borrowed dressing gown. “How does that sound?” 

“Very nice,” she murmured, falling asleep nearly as soon as her head sank back into the goose-feather pillows.

Pulitzer tucked her in gently and switched off the light as he left the room. So Katherine was walking out with the Kelly boy, was she? Ah well, like the doctor said, his family was safe, and that was the most important thing. He might not like Jack, but he knew that he could trust the boy to treat his daughter with kindness and respect. He could trust Kelly to protect her, too, should the need arise, which, if she continued to insist on being a reporter, it well might. Although Pulitzer knew he’d have felt very differently about his daughter’s secret liaison with a former newsboy if he’d found out about it yesterday, today’s brush with losing his beloved wife and four of his six surviving children left him inclined to overlook his daughter’s foibles and improprieties. Stern and calculating as he was, Joseph Pulitzer sincerely wanted his children to be happy and healthy. And if Jack made Katherine happy, then Pulitzer would find a way to live with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one wasn't quite as long as usual, but it needed to happen for setup purposes. 
> 
> As always, flower garlands and chocolate chip cookies to all you lovely readers/kudo-ers/commenters!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Davey and Race have good news.

It wasn’t until Jack spilled an entire pot of ink across his desk in the newsroom that he realized he’d gone to work. He dipped his fingers in the ink wonderingly, watching the blue drip from his fingertips and soak into the beautifully white illustration paper laid out across his drafting table. Funny, how such small movements could make such a big mess. He reached up to touch his split lip and felt the smoothness of the ink against his mouth and his tongue. It tasted bitter and thick, like the marmalade he’d once stolen from the greengrocer’s to feed the boys, or the air outside the ruins of the Pulitzer mansion. He brought his other hand to his lip to wipe it away.

The ink was still spreading across the table, forming little rivulets and oceans that traveled ever outwards and began dribbling onto the floor. Jack shifted his leg slightly so that the ink started pooling on his brown trousers. Gradually, it began to soak through the thick fabric and stain his thigh. It was cold and damp, and he closed his eyes as he felt the stain slowly spread across his skin. That ink could have been used to create front-page illustrations, to sign his published work, to write notes to Katherine, but now all of its potential had vanished, and it was good only for sopping up and throwing away. There was a pile of blotter paper at the edge of every illustrator’s desk, but Jack didn’t reach for it. He didn’t even remember it was there. Instead, he continued to watch the ink spread and soak and stain. There was nothing he could do to fix this. There was nothing he could do to fix anything. Life grew bigger and harder and messier until it swallowed you whole, and all he could do was watch it happen.

He became convinced that he was moving underwater. Everything was just a little bit blurry, every sound was faint and distorted, every thought and motion was slowed by an invisible force that he was rapidly tiring of fighting. His emotions grew duller as his brain and his body continued to retreat from his control, and his breath became butterfly-light. He would have welcomed the numbness if he’d been aware of it, but the only things he was conscious of were the ink on his desk and the bitter taste in his mouth. He dipped his fingers into the inkwell just to feel the richness of it on his fingers, and then he brought it up to his lips again to feel the smoothness there, too. He felt as if he were crawling into a nautilus shell, each chamber smaller and darker and safer than the last. No one could reach him if he retreated fully. Nothing could hurt him if he abandoned everything.

As he stood motionless at his drafting table, the world around him grew steadily fainter and less precise, as if he were swaddled in cotton. He was vaguely aware that sounds and sights and smells existed, that these were things he should have been able to register, but none of that was present here in his ever-shrinking world. All of that was too far away for him to perceive it anymore. As he fell deeper into himself, he remembered with a jolt that something painful was chasing him, something was nipping at his heels and trying to savage his heart, but he was so far gone that he wasn’t sure what it was anymore. And that was a blessing; he couldn’t be hurt by things he couldn’t recall. He was drowning in ink and catatonia, and it was such a relief that his only wish was to sink faster.

And then he felt a tug at the edge of his consciousness. That was a sound he recognized… had someone called his name? He fought the desire to swim back to reality; he knew he’d be in pain again if he surfaced, and he didn’t want to face that. But the sound repeated, dragging him upwards and back to himself, and now he could tell it was two voices, two voices he thought he knew, and they were shouting, and then someone laid a hand on his shoulder, and he rocketed back into the light, jerking away from the unexpected touch, arms up in a defensive posture.

“Whoa, buddy, take it easy,” drawled a cocky voice. “We ain’t tryin’ ta hurt ya or nothin’. We tried talkin’ ta ya first, but ya was miles away. An’ what’s with the messy desk? I thought you was s’posed ta be an artist, not a kindergarten finger painter.”

Jack’s eyes were still unfocused, but he was able to place the voice now. “Race.”

“Yeah?”

“Stop bein’ an ass.”

Race guffawed. “That’ll be the day, Jackie boy.” 

Jack turned to his left, where there was another blurry figure. He squinted and blinked several times, and his vision finally cleared. “Davey.”

Davey's face was flushed and his chest was still heaving from running to find Jack. “Where have you been! We had no idea where to find you until your shift started—you’ve had us worried all day,” he said. “You still do. We must’ve called your names a dozen times just now. What’s up?”

Jack lifted his newsboy’s cap and scratched his scalp, smearing ink into his hair. “I dunno. That just happens sometimes.” He shrugged. “No biggie.”

Davey and Race exchanged skeptical looks, but neither of them wanted to press Jack on the issue, so they left it at that. Jack reached for the pile of blotter paper and began mopping up the mess on his desk. “Ya don’t need ta worry ‘bout me, ya knows I can take care of myself just fine.” He set his jaw and crouched to scrub at the carpeting, succeeding only in rubbing the ink across wider and wider swaths of carpet. “Anyway, ya found me, so ya can see for yourselves that I’m alright. I’ll be back at the lodgin’ house tonight. I’ll see yous then, yeah?”

Davey cleared his throat. “Actually, Jack, we have some news for you that we think you’ll want to hear now.”

Jack, still squatting on the floor, looked from Davey to Race, noting their matching looks of triumph. He furrowed his brow. “Spit it out, Jacobs.”

“We found Katherine.”

Jack leapt to his feet. “You _what_? Is she alive? Where is she? How didja find her?”

“Settle down, Jackie boy,” Race said, taking his cigar out of his mouth and placing it in his front shirt pocket. “She’s alive, an’ she ain’t far, neither.” His voice took on a smug tone. “As ta how we found her, well, we’s smarter than you, that’s how. Unlike _some_ people, we didn’t just run off when we saw the headline. We took our time an’ came up with a plan. Ya oughta try it sometime.”

Jack growled. “Race, I swears, if ya don’t tell me where Katherine is, I’ll…”

Davey gave Race an exasperated look. “What Race means to say is that he’s been worried about you, he feels guilty for not catching you up this morning, and since all of us care about you, there were an awful lot of newsboys to help search for Katherine.”

Jack glared at Race, who glared right back. They softened at the same time, embracing in a fierce hug. “I hates it when ya runs off like that, Jackie,” Race whispered. “I always think you’s runnin’ off ta Santa Fe an’ never comin’ back.” 

Jack drew back and gave Race a soft punch in the arm. “Ya big idiot, I ain’t never gonna run off anywhere without sayin’ goodbye. Promise.”

Race gave a quick nod and dashed his fist across his eyes. “Cold makes my eyes water,” he said.

“Mine, too,” said Jack, handing him an extra sheet of blotter paper. Turning to Davey, he asked, “Are ya tellin’ me that no one sold papes today?” 

“That’s what I’m telling you, yes. It was like the strike all over again!” Davey said, warming to his theme. “We fanned out to search hospitals, gathering information by askin’ for relatives or posing as messenger boys, and then we sent newsboy representatives to every borough and asked the newsies there if they had connections at places we thought wealthy people might go after losin’ a home.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “What, like there’s a lodging house for rich folks?”

“No,” Davey laughed. “Like second homes, fancy apartments for sale, friends’ mansions, and…” He leaned in and wiggled his eyebrows. _“Hotels_.”

Jack’s jaw dropped and he smacked himself on the head. “How didn’t I think of that?”

“I toldja already, ya’s not as smart as we is,” Race said, giving Jack a cheeky wink. “Turns out Spot’s got a cousin who’s a bellhop at the Waldorf-Astoria, can you believe it?”

“Ya ain’t gonna believe the bruisin’ I’m gonna give ya if ya don’t just tell me where Katherine is already!”

Race rolled his eyes. “Geez! Hold your horses, Kelly, I’m tellin’ ya right now. So me an’ Davey goes ta visit Spot’s cousin, an’ he says yeah, he seen the Pulitzers checkin’ inta the Waldorf early this mornin’. He carried some of Joe’s bags up an’ everything.” Race was in full swing now, gesturing with his cigar and getting ready to reenact the full conversation, complete with vocal imitations of Davey and Spot’s cousin, but his audience had left. As soon as Race said where the Pulitzers were, Jack bolted out of the newsroom, not even pausing to grab his coat and mittens. He was hell-bent for leather on getting to Katherine as quickly as possible.

Davey and Race looked at each other and sighed. “Shoulda seen that comin’,” Race said ruefully.

“Yeah,” said Davey. “Button your coat back up, I guess we’d better go after him. Again.” Davey wound his scarf back around his neck, picked up Jack’s shabby jacket, and tossed the wad of blotter paper into a nearby trashcan. “Oh well, at least this time we know where he’s headed. Ready?”

“Ready,” said Race, his cigar jammed back in his mouth.

Tugging their mittens on and clattering down the stairs to the ground floor, the two boys embarked on yet another round of “Let's Catch Up with Jack Kelly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Waldorf Astoria hotel was built in two stages; the Waldorf opened in 1893, and apparently it was built as part of a family feud-- William Astor was mad at his aunt, and so he built the hotel right next to her house. The Astoria part of the hotel came later, in 1897, and the two adjacent buildings were then joined by corridors.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Race and Davey help Jack sneak into a hotel, and Spot's cousin turns out to be kind of a jerk.

Jack burst into the lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria completely out of breath and covered in sweat. He scanned the room for the check-in desk and, dodging tuxedoed men and women in layers and layers of flounced petticoats, ran over to the marble counter, gasping, “I’m here ta see Mr. Joseph Pulitzer. Couldja tell me the room number, please?”

The man behind the desk looked at Jack, who was disheveled, panting, and covered in rivulets of inky perspiration, and gave a small sniff. “I’m sorry, but what business do you have with Mr. Pulitzer?” 

“I’m one of his employees. He’s expectin’ me.” Jack reasoned that this was probably true; when was Pulitzer not expecting Jack to show up and be a nuisance? 

“Is that so.”

Jack groaned and flopped his arms across the partition separating him from the clerk. _Not this song and dance again_. “Yes. Look, I know I don’t belong in this swanky hotel, an’ I’ll get outta your hair lickety-split if ya just tells me where Joe is, yeah? I ain’t tryin’ ta do anythin’ bad, I just really needs ta see him.”

“Well, unfortunately, Mr. Pulitzer has left strict instructions that only family members are permitted to visit. With the exception of the doctor and the nurses he has personally engaged, of course. So I’m afraid I can’t help you.” 

“Oh. But, um, I’m a nurse?” He ventured, knowing it wouldn’t help but couldn’t hurt to try.

“Alright, then.” The receptionist picked up a pen and moved as if to write down directions to Pulitzer’s suite.

“Really?” Jack blinked.

The man dropped the pen and gave Jack the universal ‘are you kidding me’ look. “No, of course not! Do you think I’m stupid?” 

Jack glowered. “How’m I supposed to know if you’s stupid or not? I only just metcha!”

“Well, I’m not stupid, but the jury’s still out about you, whippersnapper.” He folded his arms and stood ramrod straight. “You need to leave.”

Jack narrowed his eyes and thumbed his nose at the clerk before turning around and quickly scanning the lobby. He glanced back over his shoulder at the man behind the desk, gauging the distance between them, and made a sudden break for the stairwell on the far side of the lobby.

The clerk swore under his breath and then pressed a button behind the desk, yelling “Security! Security! Stop that boy!”

Jack was halfway across the lobby now, weaving around the startled high society mavens and evading the male guests’ halfhearted attempts to catch him. He wasn’t able to dodge everyone, of course, and he bumped into more than one gauzily clad shoulder as he blew past, but he barely registered the knocks and didn’t even hear the shrieks of protest and dismay. Jack didn’t give a rip about how many rich ladies he had to bowl over in order to beat the clerk to the stairs—he was going to find Katherine, dammit, and he’d knock over every person and knock on every door in this pompous hotel if he had to.

He’d nearly reached the stairwell when his right arm was practically wrenched out of its socket. The sudden shift in momentum caused him to stagger and fall halfway to the ground; the hand on his arm was the only thing keeping him partly upright.

“Not so fast, little ragamuffin,” said a gruff voice. Jack hunched his shoulders protectively and looked up to see a bulldog of a man, dressed in a crisp hotel uniform, standing behind him. The man quickly took advantage of Jack’s stillness to grab his other arm and haul him to his feet. Jack winced at the pain and pressure of the man’s grip, and his mind was screaming at him to fight back, to get those hands off of him, but the man was a Goliath to Jack’s David, and since Jack didn't have Finch's slingshot, he settled for an angry glare.

He shot that same angry look at anyone who dared meet his eyes as he was half-dragged, half-marched through the lobby and thrown out into the snow on the sidewalk. Tumbling onto the concrete, he skidded across the gritty slush, tearing his trousers and skinning his left knee. He scrambled to his feet and twisted around to yell at the security guard, but the big man was already back inside. Apparently, he didn’t even think enough of Jack to watch and make sure that the newsboy moved away from the hotel.

 Jack spat in the snow bank in disgust and looked up to see Davey and Race standing in front of him. “What is it with you and spitting, anyway?” Davey said. “So gross.”

Jack harrumphed and adjusted his newsboy’s cap. 

“Spot’s cousin said they’re pretty tight on security here at the Waldorf,” Davey commented blandly, handing Jack his coat and mittens.

Jack took them gratefully—sweat and cold air were a bad mix, and he was starting to shiver. “Well, I’ll try the Astoria entrance, then,” he said. “Or the kitchens… I looks right for the part of delivery boy, doncha think?”

“Honestly, Jack, you should’ve waited for us,” Davey said. “We’ve already got this all planned out.”

“Yeah. Plus, this whole runnin’ off thing is gettin’ old, Jackie boy,” Race said, pretending to knock the ashes off the end of his unlit cigar. “Ya oughta stick around more than a hot minute an’ hear what we have ta say. You’re not the only one with good ideas, ya know.”

“So I’ve been told,” said Jack, hanging his head sheepishly. “Sorry, boys. I’m workin’ on that. So what’s our angle?”

“Spot’s cousin said he’d sneak ya in,” Race said. “We just needs ta give him the signal an’ he’ll meet us out back and slip ya up to see your girlie.”

Jack clapped Race on the back. “You two’s the best, ya know that?” He grinned at both of them. “What’s the signal?”

“Ya gots ta crow like a rooster, moo like a cow, an’ then dance around like a robin layin’ an egg,” said Race. “The commotion’ll get our man’s attention in no time.”

Jack’s eyes flicked from Davey to Race, but they seemed entirely serious.

“Ya wanna find Kath’rine or not?” Race demanded, waving the cigar in Jack’s face.

“Alright, alright,” he said, and drew in a breath to do his best rooster impersonation. As soon as he started to crow, the other two boys immediately doubled over in laughter. It took them several minutes to calm themselves, as the mere sight of Jack’s furious expression or the least hint of a giggle from either one of them sent them both off into hysterics again. Eventually, Jack had had enough. He packed a couple of tight snowballs from the dirty street slush and fired them straight at his friends.

“Owwwww!” Race yelled, rubbing his shoulder. “Okay, okay, follow me around back, an’ we’ll get in touch with Spot’s cousin for real.”

Davey was still snickering as they turned the corner into the alley behind the Waldorf. “I can’t believe that worked, Race. Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

Race knocked on a door in the alleyway and poked his head in. Steam and the smell of cooked vegetables wafted out, and Jack’s stomach growled. “Shoot, I forgot to eat today,” he said.

“You _what_?” Said Davey. “You’re in worse shape than I thought, then. And that’s sayin’ something, because you look awful. I’m surprised they even let you into the hotel to begin with.”

“I didn’t look this bad before they roughed me up an’ tossed me in the snow,” Jack groused, but he fell silent when Davey raised his eyebrows.

 Meanwhile, Race was yelling into the crowded hotel kitchen. “ ‘Scuse me, is Polk around?”

“Polk?” Jack turned to Davey. “What kinda name is that?”

“Jack. Your best friend is named Crutchie.”

 Jack shrugged. “So? Crutchie’s got a crutch. This Polk kid covered in polka dots, or what?”

Davey laughed. “I guess we’ll find out.”

 Race closed the door and turned to his friends. “He’ll be out in a minute.”

“ _That’s_ the signal?” Jack threw up his hands. “Geez, Race, what was with the rooster claptrap back there?”

Race shrugged. “I bet Davey a nickel ya’d do it if we played it straight. Plus ya been pissin’ me off today, Kelly.”

Jack kicked some snow at Race, who stuck out his tongue. After several minutes of waiting, a smartly dressed boy opened the door, his jet black hair and diminutive stature clearly marking him as Spot’s cousin. “Which one of ya wants ta get up to the Pulitzers’ suite?” 

“Me,” said Jack, stepping forward with his trademark swagger.

“Okay. So here’s what we do. I gots some towels for ya ta carry as your cover. They’s stacked up in the kitchen, so once we go inside, ya picks ‘em up an’ follows me up the back stairways. If we meets anyone, ya let me do the talkin’. Just hide behind the linens—guests are always askin’ for extra, ya won’t draw attention unless ya tries to.” He eyed Jack’s ripped pants. “Well, maybe ya will. Don’t ya got any better pants than that?” 

“What, ya think I go around all day with an extra pair of pants tucked inta the pocket of my pants?”

“Well, ya oughta—those things is a disgrace. You,” Polk said, jerking his head at Race. “You’s about the same height as he is; swap ‘em out.”

 “I ain’t wearin’ Jack’s pants!” Race protested. “They’s wet and bloody an’ who even knows where all he’s been in ‘em.”

“What’s _that_ s’posed ta mean, where all I’ve been in ‘em? I’m at a desk most days, not a landfill!” He made a rude gesture at Race. “As if I’d wanna wear your pants anyway. _Ha_. I don’t think ya'd know a bar of soap if it hit ya on the head.”

Davey sighed, unbuttoned his coat in order to unsnap his suspenders, shimmied out of his pants, and thrust them at Jack. “Here. Just roll up the cuffs. And hand yours over fast, it’s freezin' out here.”

Ten seconds later, Polk was nodding his approval and Davey was tugging his socks up to cover the skin left bare by his shorter friend’s trousers. “Much better. Okay, so to recap-- follow me, don’t talk, an’ I’ll get ya ta Pulitzer’s rooms. I can’t get ya in ‘em, mind you, but I can make sure ya gets a chance to knock on the door.”

“Better’n nothin’,” said Jack. “Alright, I’m ready when you are.”

Polk stuck out a hand, but not to shake; the palm was facing up. Jack looked at him quizzically. “Money up front,” Polk said. “I’m riskin’ my job by sneakin’ ya in, an’ ya ain’t a close enough friend of Spot’s ta get me ta do that for free. Oh, an’ if ya gets caught, Spot’ll hammer ya if ya squeals on me.” 

Jack rolled his eyes, but he didn’t object; the kid had a point. He began to rummage in his pockets for loose change, realized these were Davey’s pockets when he felt a book and a half-eaten apple instead of scrap paper and a pencil, and switched to feeling around in his coat pockets. His fingers eventually closed around a dime, which he handed over to Polk. “We good now?”

“Yup.” He gave an ironic little bow and ushered Jack in through the door. “Welcome to the Waldorf-Astoria.”

Jack looked over his shoulder at Race and Davey. “Thanks, guys. I means it. Don’t wait for me; I dunno how long this sneakin’ into hotel stuff takes. I’ll see ya tonight at the lodging house, Race—an’ you, too, Davey, if ya sticks around that long. Oh, an’ I got a nicer pair of pants up on the fire escape, so switch inta those an’ borrow ‘em until I can get these back ta ya. They ain’t got holes in ‘em, an’ I just washed ‘em last week. With soap,” he said, adding the last bit on for Race's benefit.

“Sure thing, Jack,” said Davey. “Good luck.”

“Fingers crossed, Jackie boy,” said Race. “Go get yer girl.”

Jack gave them a brisk salute and disappeared into the steam of the kitchen.

 

***

 

The kitchen was so busy that no one noticed Polk leading Jack through to the hallway, Jack balancing a tall stack of white towels and with his long gray coat draped over one arm. Polk had tried to get him to leave the shabby coat in the kitchen, but there was no way Jack was parting from his best shield against catching a cold or worse in this miserable winter, not even temporarily.

Polk peered cautiously around the corner and then motioned for Jack to follow. “Coast is clear-- we’ve got a straight shot for the back stairwell. Remember, don’t talk an’ we’ll be fine.”

Jack was tempted to respond verbally —seriously, how many times was this kid going to tell him the same thing?— but instead he just nodded. The stairwell smelled of tobacco smoke and, oddly, burnt onions. It was freezing cold, too, and he wished his hands were free to shrug his coat back on. He’d expected more from such a highfalutin hotel, but then again, the only people who ever used this stairwell were staff, and rich people weren’t known for caring overmuch about how the sausage got made.

Jack followed Polk up flight after flight of stairs, craning his neck around the massive stack of towels to find the next step. At the tenth floor landing, Polk took the towels from Jack and nodded to a door at their left. “That’ll take ya where ya wanna go. The second door is the main entry to the suite. Ya gots ta be careful, mind—this floor is one o’ them private hotel floors.”

Jack gave him a blank look.

“That means it’s got its own staff—full staff. Maids, page boys, waiters, clerks, the whole shebang. Avoid ‘em if possible,” he said, readjusting the towels, and then added, almost as an afterthought, “Though I ain’t sure ya can. It’s hard ta hide in a hallway, an’ ya clearly ain’t a guest.”

“Okay.” Jack scratched at the back of his neck. “Can I borrow the towels back?”

Polk snorted. “I needs ta take ‘em ta guests on the twelfth floor, so, no.”

Jack unconsciously curled his right hand into a fist. “Did I even needs ‘em in the stairwell, or was ya just gettin’ me ta do your work for ya?”

The bellhop shrugged. “You decide. I’ve got work ta do.” And then, without so much as a nod, Polk began climbing up the next flight of stairs.

Fuming, Jack cracked open the door that led to the tenth floor of the hotel. It was eerily quiet for somewhere that was supposed to have a full staff, but he supposed that peace and quiet were good for convalescents, and anyone wealthy enough to rent out an entire floor of a hotel was probably wealthy enough to pay servants not to talk. The silence would make it harder for him to pick a good moment to sneak out and knock on the door, though, because he wouldn’t hear conversations warning him of anyone’s approach. Oh well; there was nothing to be done about that, so no sense in worrying. He waited a few minutes more, watching maids whisk in and out of the hallway and waiters cross from what must be the floor’s private kitchen to doors on the far end of the hall, which obviously led to the suite’s dining room. He had hoped to identify a pattern to the staff’s movements, but there seemed to be none whatsoever. He sighed. This was all down to luck, then.

Once he made the decision to leave the stairwell, he moved with complete determination and confidence. He made it to the large double doors that served as the main entryway into the suite, and, without pausing, he rapped firmly at the door. He made sure to knock loudly enough to be certain that if no one opened the door, it wasn’t because they hadn’t heard him; he just hoped it wasn’t so loud that the staff in the hallway would hear and stop him before he had a chance to plead his case to Pulitzer. He figured if he could just see the newspaper magnate face to face, Pulitzer would give him at least ten seconds to beg to see Katherine. Jack didn’t need any longer than that; he knew how to make a quick and convincing sales pitch.

Unfortunately for Jack, Pulitzer was not the one who opened the door. Instead, it was a short woman in a crisp white smock –one of the real nurses hired by Pulitzer, he supposed– who took one look at him and frowned. Davey’s pants notwithstanding, Jack looked grubby and smelled of sweat. Not the sort of person you’d want to invite into a sickroom.

“Good evening, miss. I’m here to see Miss Katherine Pulitzer.”

“She’s indisposed. And only family is allowed in, anyway.”

Jack considered saying that he was a cousin or something, one of the relations on the poorer side of the family (was there a poor side of the family? Maybe he was a long-lost Hungarian cousin?), but this nurse looked like she meant business. “I’ll be honest with ya—I’m not family, but I am a friend of the family, an’ I promise I won’t bother Katherine. I won’t even talk ta her if ya think it’s a bad idea. I just…” He swallowed. “I just needs ta see her, make sure she’s okay.”

“She’s fine,” the nurse said. “And Mr. Pulitzer’s instructions were very clear. Only family.”

She began closing the door, but Jack jammed his foot in the way and said, with more than a little desperation leaking into his voice, “Please—would you let me talk to Mr. Pulitzer? Could you just check with him, please?” 

“Mr. Pulitzer is supping with his youngest children, and I do not think he would appreciate being disturbed with a question he’s already answered.” 

Jack’s face fell, but he quickly covered his disappointment with a wink. “I’m sure you’re right, miss. Thank you for your time.” She nodded and closed the door all the way, and he leaned forward to rest his head against the frame. So close, he was _so_ close! But even though Katherine was no more than a few rooms away, somehow she was still as far away as ever. It was driving him mad.

Still, now he knew where she was, down to the very floor, and that was progress. All he had to do was find a way in… He was lost in thought when one of the floor clerks disembarked from the elevator on the other side of the hall and stopped short upon seeing Jack.

“Hey, aren’t you—you are! You’re the kid from the lobby!” He dashed off into a side corridor, Jack assumed to find another security guard willing to dislocate people’s shoulders, and Jack turned and ran to the stairwell. But the door was locked. Try as he might, he simply could not tug the thing open. It was probably a security feature; he guessed that Polk had unlocked the door from the inside in order to let Jack onto the floor in the first place, only Jack hadn’t been able to see that from behind the load of towels. Cursing under his breath, Jack heard heavy footsteps approaching down the hall and spun around to see a very large man lumbering towards him. He quickly scanned the hallway for alternate escape routes but found nothing. The man was halfway down the hall now. Maybe if Jack broke for it he’d be able to surprise the man and wriggle past to the elevator? Unlikely, but his best chance. _Okay, Kelly. You can do this. Snyder gave you plenty of practice._  

Jack clenched his jaw, waited for the man to get even closer so that he’d have less time to react, and sprinted as fast as he could, dodging the man’s huge frame. He had less luck dodging the clerk, though, who had stretched a broomstick out into the hallway when he’d seen Jack escape the security guard. Jack tripped and took a hard fall onto the Persian carpet. His head slammed against the ground, and he groaned in pain. Through half-shut eyes, he saw the shiny black shoes of the security guard stop just in front of his face. From there, he was unceremoniously hauled to his feet, shoved into the elevator, and escorted to the ground floor. Jack braced himself for another shove onto the sidewalk, but instead he found himself being dragged behind the check-in desk.

“Brought you a gift, Sanders,” the security guard said in a reedy voice.

The check-in clerk blinked and then grinned. “Thanks, Dawes. Would you hold on to him a moment longer, please? I’m sure there’s a friendly policeman nearby who could help us with our little problem visitor—let me go see.” He patted Jack's cheek and then walked outside to flag down the closest cop.

Jack went completely limp, hoping maybe his sudden dead weight would startle the security guard into letting him go. No luck. He struggled for another minute or so, using all the street tricks he’d learned, and although stomping at the insteps of the guard’s shoes did give him a brief second of freedom, he quickly found himself back in the firm grasp of the larger man. Jack gave up when he saw the policeman following the clerk into the lobby; he knew that things would go worse for him if he was seen putting up a fight. Jack had learned from experience that if you couldn’t escape the police, it was best to be as compliant as possible. You’d probably still end up with bruises and get smacked around until your ears rang, but that was better than broken bones and injured kidneys. Race had peed blood for a week once after mouthing off to the bulls when they'd caught him stealing food. And so it was a very docile, stoic Jack who was led out of the lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria for the second time that day. This time, though, he was in handcuffs, and Race and Davey weren’t there to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes:
> 
> There were 16 floors in the original Waldorf-Astoria. Some of these floors were like mini private hotels, completely outfitted with their own staff. (Who thinks up something like that?! Ah, yes, what our hotel needs is... a hotel.)
> 
>  
> 
> Whoo, this was a long one! I'm thinking I'll need about three more chapters to wrap this story up, so we're hitting the homestretch here. I hope you're enjoying it! :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we check in on Katherine and Jack gets a boost.

_Smoke. Smoke everywhere. Smoke so thick that Katherine can’t tell which way to turn, which way is out—is there a way out? Where is she, anyway? She spins around but recognizes nothing. All she sees is smoke, and all she smells is burning wood. As she stands there, thinking, a support beam crashes from the ceiling. The flames from the beam catch at her dress, setting her left side ablaze. She screams, beating the flames out with her hands. It hurts like hell, but she keeps at it until the fire goes out. She nearly passes out with the pain in her side, but she forces herself to stay upright._ Come on, Katherine, there’s got to be a way out of here _. But… which way? Katherine senses the fire growing behind her, gathering strength as it devours the… lodging house? She's in the lodging house! But that means… oh no, please no…_

_“Jack!” She realizes she's right in front of the staircase in the lodging house. If she runs down, she’ll escape the fire for sure, but instead she turns and runs up the stairs, up to the fire escape, up towards Jack._

_“Jack! Where are you? Answer me!” The flames chase her up to the third floor, and then the fourth, and then she's at the ladder, but she can barely hold on to the rungs because the metal is so hot. But she grits her teeth and climbs, and now she's on the rooftop, and there, look, there's a figure slumped against the railing, covered in blankets, and— “Jack!” She races to his side, but he's unresponsive. His face is gray, his eyes are shut, and his body is completely limp. She shakes him in increasing desperation, tearing blanket after blanket away from him, but she isn’t able to pull them all off, and his head lolls limply onto her chest, and the fire roars behind her, and all she can do is pull him close and bury her face in his neck. “No, please, oh please, oh please, no, don’t…” she doesn’t even know what she's begging for, let alone if anyone can hear her, but then, just before the flames consume her whole, she feels cool raindrops on her head and arms. She begins to cry. “Jack…”_

The nurse gently bathed Katherine’s feverish face with cool water, the liquid from the washrag mingling with Katherine’s tears. She dipped the cloth back into the basin and then ran it over the girl’s sweaty arms, cooing softly as she did so. “There, there, you’re safe, it’s just a dream…”

The other nurse busied herself by untangling the mess of blankets that Katherine had somehow wound around herself. “Poor lamb,” she said. “Laudanum to quiet her, do you think?”

The first nurse shook her head. “She’s had too much as it is today. We can’t risk it.” 

“Jack,” Katherine mumbled, tugging feebly at her blankets. “Jack, please…”

The second nurse sighed and straightened out the covers. “I wish she’d let herself sleep. I’m certain she wouldn’t even have this fever if she’d been able to get some rest.”

Katherine screamed again, tossing from side to side. One of the nurses grabbed her arm to keep her from hurting herself and jostling mending bones, and Katherine’s eyes flew open at the touch. “No! No no no no…” It was easy to tell from the look in her eyes that she wasn’t truly awake, but she wasn’t truly asleep, either, and that was the problem. Katherine was making herself sick, and neither of the women at her bedside knew how to help.

***

The jail cell was filthy and cold, but that hardly registered to Jack, who was genuinely looking forward to a good night’s sleep indoors, away from the newsies’ coughing and sneezing. Sure, some of the other men with him in the holding pen were clearly sick, too, but Jack didn’t care about any of them, so he had no trouble curling up on the floor in the far corner of the cell and falling asleep nearly as soon as his eyes closed. 

As he fell deeper into sleep, he found himself trapped in dreams of leaping flames and Katherine’s screams. He couldn’t see her through the clouds of thick black smoke, but he knew she was close. He would find her. He would save her. He _would._ He started to run towards her voice, but someone was holding him back, someone was gripping his arm hard enough for it to bruise, and Katherine’s cries grew fainter and fainter as Jack struggled in vain to free himself. “Let me go!” Jack shouted, twisting and thrashing to absolutely no avail.

“Is there a Jack Kelly in here?” Said his captor.

“Yes! Yes, that’s me.”

“Jack Kelly?”

“ _Yes_ ,” said Jack, half-sobbing. “Yes, that’s me. Please let me go, you have to let me go—can’t you hear her? She’s dying! She’s dying, and I have to find her. You have to let me go! Please…”

“Jack Kelly?”

Before Jack could answer, he felt a sharp kick in his ribs. This jolted him out of his nightmare and back onto the stone floor of the jail cell, where he was lying on the floor, staring at the booted feet of a bored and overworked policeman. “You there. Are you Jack Kelly?”

“Yes,” he said warily, resisting the urge to clutch at the pain in his side.

 “You’re free to go.”

Jack scrambled to his feet and brushed the largest clumps of jail cell dirt off of his coat. The policeman turned away without another word, and Jack followed him out of the holding pen and up a flight of rickety steps to the processing area. Davey was waiting for him there, projecting an aura of confidence and calm. Jack knew better, though—his friend’s clenched jaw and white-knuckled grasp on the newsboy’s cap held at his side betrayed Davey’s nerves. Those nerves were justified, Jack knew—this was a Polish part of town, and Davey was risking a beating just by coming here.

“Hey, _Jakub_ ,” Jack said pointedly, selecting a Polish name he knew Davey would respond to. “Thanks for coming.”

Davey’s hidden fear lightened almost imperceptibly. “Hey. Let’s get outta here.”

They stayed quiet until they were on safer streets, and then Jack clapped his friend on the back. “You’re a real pal, Davey. Thanks.”

“No problem,” said Davey. “Figured something happened when you didn’t show up at the lodging house last night; wasn’t hard to track you down. You’re the talk of the Waldorf’s lobby at the moment.”

Jack grinned. “What can I say? I know how to make a lasting impression. Who could forget a face as handsome as mine?”

Davey shook his head but couldn’t hide his amusement. Slinging his paper bag off of his shoulder, he reached under the stack of papers (Jack noted with approval that Davey had at least forty, a far cry from the mere twenty his friend had barely been able to sell last summer) and pulled out a pair of freshly laundered pants. “Mind if I take mine back?”

“Jacobs, you gem!” Jack quickly shrugged off his coat, undid his waistcoat, unbuttoned his suspenders, and yanked off Davey’s now-dirty trousers, hopping a little as the over-rolled cuffs snagged on his work boots. “Ya didn’t have ta clean ‘em—an’ ya sewed ‘em up, too?” Jack beamed. “I owes ya one, for sure.”

Davey waved him off. “That’s what friends are for. Plus I had nothin’ else to do while I was waiting for you to show up at the lodging house.”

Jack shoved him sideways. “You’s the best. I means it.”

“Aw, shut up,” Davey said sheepishly, rubbing his neck. “So, did you see Kath yesterday?”

“Nah." Jack buttoned his suspenders onto his clean, crisp pants and then moved to button his waistcoat and coat back up, too. "Nurse wouldn’t let me in, an’ then I got peeped by a clerk who tripped me with a broom. Security guard dragged me downstairs, an’ the bulls dragged me ta jail.”

“So what’s your plan?” 

“Well,” said Jack, scratching at a flea bite on his arm, “Iff’n I could get ya ta help me out, I do have one idea…”

“Sure thing,” Davey said. “Whatever you need. Well, mostly whatever. I’m not killing anyone for you.”

“Don’t worry,” Jack said. “This oughta be pretty easy. I just needs ya ta give me a boost.”

 Soon enough they were back in the alley behind the Waldorf-Astoria, although this time they continued farther down, until they turned into a smaller, bisecting alleyway. Jack looked down the grungy passageway, which was filled with trash and dirty snow, and grinned. “Bingo.” 

“What do you mean, bingo?” Davey said, stamping his feet to keep his blood moving.

Jack waggled his eyebrows and pointed to the fire escape on the second floor.

Davey took in the rickety metal platform and ladder system that zigzagged all the way up the side of the building. “Nice.” 

“Yeah. Now that I knows what floor she’s on, this’ll be easy peasy. Help me up there, will ya?”

Davey nodded, and the two boys walked over to stand under the fire escape. Jack was clearly too short to be able to jump and pull down the retractable ladder on the bottom platform on his own, but between the two of them, this would be a cinch. Davey bent down on one knee and made a step with his hands. Jack placed one foot on Davey’s thigh, grabbed his friend’s shoulder for balance, and then, as Jack placed his other foot onto Davey’s hands and launched himself upwards, Davey straightened up and used Jack’s momentum to heave him still higher. Jack grabbed onto the metal railings of the fire escape and hung there for a moment before adjusting his grip and hauling himself up onto the platform. He leaned back over the side to wave at his friend. “We’d make good robbers,” he said.

Davey dusted off his hands and rolled his eyes. “You mean _I_ would make a good robber. You’d make a terrible robber, you got caught twice yesterday.”

“One of those times was ‘cause of how your plan didn’t work,” he shot back.

“Guess we should both stay on the straight an’ narrow, then,” Davey laughed, straightening up and turning to leave. “You all set up there?” 

“Yup, sure am. Go sell those papes. Make up a headline about a series of break-ins at the Waldorf-Astoria if the sellin’ ain’t good today,” he said with a smirk. “I know how you hates lyin’, but that news is God’s honest truth.”

“Dangerous criminal hunts down teenage heiress,” Davey replied. “That’ll sell like hotcakes. Alright, I’m off. Good luck, Jack!” 

Jack tipped his cap to Davey and hustled up the fire escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes (of a sort):
> 
> I know there were Polish immigrants in NYC at the time, but I don't know where in the city their neighborhoods were. Nevertheless, Davey's nervousness about being in a Polish area isn't just authorial embellishment-- when my dad was a kid, he'd get beaten up when he crossed into the Polish neighborhoods, and that was in the 1950s/60s, when anti-semitism (while still very much present and destructive!) wasn't nearly as bad in the US as it had been at the turn of the century. 
> 
>  
> 
> Only two more chapters... *cue dramatic music to play behind the 'scenes from next week's episode' trailer*
> 
> Thank you all for reading my silly little procrastination story and for encouraging me with comments/kudos etc :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which two very tired teenagers finally get some sleep.

After several minutes of steady climbing, Jack reached the tenth floor. He ducked down as he pulled himself up the last rungs of the ladder, careful to keep his body below window level. Once he’d inched up to the side of the building, he pressed his ear to the brick to see if he could scout out what was going on in the Pulitzer suite. No noise. He raised his head ever so slightly to scan the room, and saw a smartly dressed doctor and the same white-smocked nurse from yesterday exit a hallway to Jack’s right and pause in the living room. Their backs were to him, and he leaned against the window to listen in. The glass was thick and they were speaking quietly, so he wasn’t able to make out every word, but he got the gist of it.

“… very important, Nurse Prentiss.”

 “Yes, sir. And for the mother? She’s been hysterical all morning.”

“Understandable, given her daughter’s condition. You said the girl was raving all night?”

“Yes, but…” her voice faded, and Jack readjusted his position at the window. “…dangers of laudanum…”

“Of course. Well, at least she’s tired herself out for now; let’s hope that lasts. Where is Mrs. Pulitzer? I think it'll take both of us to calm her nerves…” 

Jack caught motion out of the corner of his eye and ducked down again, just barely peeking over the window ledge to see the doctor and nurse leave the living room through a door to Jack’s left. As soon as the coast was clear, he pulled out a pocketknife and began to jimmy the window open. Katherine had two sisters, so he couldn’t be sure that the doctor had been discussing Katherine, but given that Jack hadn’t gotten so much as a note on his desk from her since the fire, chances were she was the one who’d been raving all night. And that her room was somewhere on the right. The sash slid up without so much as a squeak, and Jack blessed the staff at the Waldorf-Astoria for keeping everything shipshape. He slipped into the living room and tugged the window shut after him; he was reluctant to close it all the way in case he needed to beat a hasty retreat, but it was necessary to hide the evidence of his entry.

He tiptoed to the hallway and poked his head around the corner. Empty and silent. Good. Pulitzer should be at work, he knew that the Mrs. was on the other side of the suite, and he couldn’t imagine that little Herbert, Edith, and Constance would be able to be quiet enough for him not to hear their voices echoing down the hallway if they were in one of the rooms down this way. Katherine had to be here. The first door he tried was locked; he guessed it was storage, since he couldn’t imagine that the doctor would lock Katherine in her room, but he’d come back and try to pick it later if he needed to. The next door led to a well-appointed bathroom with gold taps and cranberry red hand towels. If Jack had known the word ‘gauche,’ he would’ve thought it had been invented just for this.

As soon as he turned the handle of the next door, he knew he’d found Katherine, because, beneath the fug of sweat and sickness, he smelled honeysuckle and vanilla and printer’s ink. He could think of no sweeter scent in the world, and he felt his heart begin to race as he inched into the dark room. He left the door cracked just a bit so that he could see his way around the furniture—from the conversation he’d overheard, it sounded like Katherine needed all the sleep she could get, and he wasn’t about to wake her up by banging his shin into a bedpost.

He sank down into a chair beside her bed and reached a hand out over the coverlet, yearning to brush her tangled curls away from her face. Did he dare? She was always the one who took the initiative when it came to that sort of thing—he was happy to shove her playfully and kid around, but when it came to physical contact over serious things, vulnerable things, romantic things, he only ever followed Katherine’s lead.

But now she wasn’t able to lead, and he wasn’t sure what to do. She was so still, stiller than he’d ever seen her. Reporter Katherine was always dashing from one interview to the next or swinging her legs under her desk as her fingers flew across the typewriter. And Jack-and-Katherine were always in motion, too. Even when they were just sitting on the rooftop, they were never _just_ sitting; he was gesturing with his hands, smacking a piece of gum, crinkling into a thousand-watt smile, fidgeting until the fire escape wobbled, and her expressive face was flying from one emotion to the next, her eyes flitting across his face and sparkling with wit, her lips setting him on fire with tender kisses. He didn’t know this quiet Katherine, and he was afraid that if he touched her, she’d break.

 _She’s running down the dark hallways of The World building, and she has to find something, and time is short, but she doesn’t know what or where or why, all she knows is that if her parents find her, she’ll have failed. Footsteps sound behind her, and she smells smoke. She hitches her skirts up and picks up speed, looking in one empty room after another. Where is it?_ What _is it?_

She derailed his train of thought with a quiet, breathy moan, and suddenly the quiet Katherine was gone. She began plucking at the bed sheets and tossing her head from side to side, and her legs started to jerk unpredictably. He withdrew his hand, more uncertain than ever. Should he just leave her? Was this a fit? Did she need a nurse? Then, he noticed her eyes flicking rapidly back and forth under her eyelids. He relaxed. This wasn’t some unknown illness he couldn’t handle—this was a textbook nightmare. Between the Refuge and the lodging house, Jack had plenty of experience in dealing with nightmares, both his and other people’s, and after years of soothing sobbing newsies, coaxing screaming children awake without startling them, and rubbing Crutchie’s back to signal to the boy’s subconscious that the Refuge was in the past, and whatever was happening now was just a dream, well—suffice it to say that Jack was an old pro at this sort of thing.

_The printing press! That’s what she’s looking for. The stairs to the cellar materialize in front of her, and she races down them, trying not to trip over her own feet. But the door leading into the old printing room is locked, and the footsteps and smoke are coming closer. She’s running out of time. Come on, Katherine, come on, where are the keys?_

 He began speaking to Katherine in a low voice and reached out to hold her hands, stopping her from picking at the coverlet by rubbing her dainty fingers between his own. “Shh, darlin’, it’s alright. It’s just a dream, love. You’re safe. Shh, shh.” He moved to lie down next to her on the bed and laid his head on her shoulder. All the while, he kept up a steady stream of reassuring noises and calm words. “Hey. Hey, Katherine, hey, it’s just a dream. You’re okay. I promise, love. I promise.”

She jerked her head back towards him, and her hair flew into his face. “Jack?” She said, her voice groggy and hoarse.

He wasn’t sure if she was awake or not, but it didn’t really matter; waking or sleeping, she needed comfort and security, and he wanted to be both of those things for her. “Yes, darling, it’s me. It’s Jack. I’m right here, right by your side.”

 _She’s rifling through her pockets and her satchel for the keys, and then she realizes that it’s not the printing press she’s looking for—it’s Jack. He’s locked in the room with the printing press, and she has to get to him, she has to free him before the fire spreads to the cellar. Did her parents set the fire? They must have, because their footsteps are gone now. Ah! She’s found the keys. Her hands shake as she inserts them into the lock, hoping and praying that they’ll fit. Yes. She’s in. She races into the dimly lit cellar and sees Jack lying on the printing press, asleep. As she runs towards him, she slips in a pool of blood on the cellar floor. Is… is that Jack’s blood? Is he_ dead _?_

“Jack,” she murmured, her eyes fluttering open and then shut. She laid still for a minute and then yelled his name. “Jack! Oh no, no no no, please, wake up—” She started thrashing again, jerking her hands out of his and beginning to keen, but Jack just moved closer and tugged down the blankets so that she didn’t tangle herself up in a mountain of sheets.

He waited for her to stop tossing her head and leaned over to kiss her sweat-soaked brow. “Shh, Katherine. I’m okay. I’m right here. We’s both okay. You can sleep now, love. I’ll take care of ya. You just let yourself sleep. I won’t let anything hurt you, I promise.” He stroked her matted curls away from her face and then reached his arm across her body to hold her hand. Then he took his other hand and began to rub her arm gently, oh so gently, tracing lazy circles on her bicep and down her forearm. “It’s Jack, Katherine. I’m right here. I’m right here with you, and I’m gonna make sure you’re okay. I’m gonna protect ya while ya get some sleep, okay? You just get some sleep now.”

_She picks herself up off the floor, her skirts and hands stained red, and inches to his side, afraid of what she might find. The room is growing lighter; sunlight has begun to stream in through the grated windows that ring the ceiling. Jack is cast in a dewy glow, awash in the colors of the desert sunrises he loves to paint. She leans down to touch his shoulder, and he stirs. She holds her breath. Slowly, Jack opens his eyes. He reaches out to stroke her arm and gives her a tender, sleep-filled smile._

She shivered and then stilled, the tension in her face fading away to leave her looking pale but peaceful. “Jack?”

“Yes, darlin’. I’m here. I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

_He pulls her close, and she lies down next to him on the printing press. Only they’re not on the printing press anymore; they’re on the fire escape, and it’s springtime, and the air is fresh and full of promise. She snuggles up against him, breathing in his smell of sweat and newsprint and just the faintest hint of cloves. It’s as if his body was made to fit hers --the planes of his chest, the hollow of his hips, the jut of his collarbone that begs for her kiss-- all of it is perfectly aligned and attuned to her. She wants every inch of him to hold every inch of her, wants to lie here with him forever, wants to spend the rest of her life here with him in this time out of time where sorrow and pain won't ever find them._

“Jack.” She smiled and moved her head to burrow into his shoulder. He felt her relax into him, and her hot breath tickled against his collarbone. He smiled in response and bent his head to rest on top of her hair. She was breathing regularly now, the deep, even breaths of a restful sleep, and Jack gave silent thanks for this blessing. He didn’t mean to doze off beside her, but the warmth of the sickroom, the soft honeysuckle smell of Katherine’s hair, and her gentle, rhythmic breathing soon lulled him into a blissfully dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go...
> 
> Thanks for reading, & thoughts are always appreciated! <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a fire escape plays a role yet again.

Jack woke to the sound of voices from the living room echoing down the hallway. He didn’t move –he didn’t want to disturb Katherine, who was still asleep, her right hand clasped in his– but he did hold his breath in an attempt to eavesdrop better. A man’s voice… was that Pulitzer, or was it the doctor? It sounded deeper than the doctor… had he slept so long that Pulitzer was already back from work? The voices receded, but he knew that once Pulitzer checked on his wife and his younger children, he’d be headed back this way to see Katherine. Jack didn’t plan on sticking around for that. He carefully released her hand, gave Katherine a chaste kiss on the forehead, gauging her temperature as he did so –her fever seemed down, that was good– and then he snuck out of her room, closing the door softly behind him. He dashed down the hallway, flung up the window, and slid it back into place. He had just enough time to duck below the sill before the voices returned to the living room.

“…better today?”

“She was restless all morning, but we haven’t heard a peep from her since lunchtime. We checked in around two and she wasn’t sleeping soundly, exactly, but she was less troubled than she had been, so we’ve let her be. We’re hopeful that she’s on the mend.”

“Good. What did the doctor…”

Jack popped back up to see Pulitzer’s silver head recede down the hallway to Katherine’s room. He thanked his lucky stars for being a light sleeper—that trait had gotten him out of more than one jam while living on the streets. He scrambled down the fire escape in the deepening gloom and didn’t even bother to pull down the ladder once he reached the second floor; he simply jumped the final story, landing crouched in the snow.

He could tell by the lengthening shadows that he was late for work, so late that the situation probably wasn’t even salvageable at this point, but he had to go anyway. He’d just bolted out of the office yesterday, and if he followed that up by missing all of today, then he’d be out of a job, no matter how talented and incisive a cartoonist he was. One disappearing act was something he could fib his way out of –sick mother, stomach virus, meeting with a politician to get an exclusive scoop for this week’s cartoon– but try to follow that up by missing a full day? No way. He took off running down the alleyway and didn’t stop running until he was in the elevator that ferried him to and from the newsroom every night.

 

***

 

Jack got read the riot act when he tried to slink into the office through the back entrance, but his crimes were quickly forgotten in the hustle and bustle of the newsroom. He stayed late to make up for missing the start of his workday, although he didn’t think his editor noticed. It was more the principle of the thing, anyway; he’d always taken pride in his work, and he wasn’t about to change that now that he’d finally landed a job he loved so much that he’d do it for free. 

Hours later, he switched off the lights in the office and took the stairs down; he didn’t think the elevator operators worked this late at night. Once out on the street, he closed his eyes and filled his lungs with cold air. New York was the city that never slept, yes, but at 2am it came close. Jack wasn’t tired yet, though, thanks to his afternoon nap on the most comfortable bed he’d ever slept on in his life, and so he ignored the cross-street turnoff for the lodging house and continued uptown to the Waldorf-Astoria. Getting up onto the fire escape without Davey required some effort, but, with the help of some tightly packed snow and a heap of alley trash, he was able to give himself enough of a boost to jump and cling to the edge of the fire escape.

He clambered ever upwards and nodded in satisfaction when he saw that the living room was empty and every light in the suite was off. He hoped that meant Katherine was asleep, too. As much as he’d have liked to talk to her, he’d rather she get some rest and heal up quickly. He scanned the inside of the suite once more to make sure he wasn’t overlooking anything, and then he slid the window open, squeezed through, and closed it behind him. He was in, and the suite was still dead quiet. _Good job, Kelly._ If only Davey could see him now. Then he’d have to admit Jack would make a first-rate burglar. Jack already knew he’d be a first-rate anything and everything, of course, but that knowledge was more fun when your friends knew it, too.

As he neared Katherine’s room, he heard quiet whimpering and the unmistakable sounds of sheets being yanked and tangled every which way. He ran the rest of the way down the hall and flung the door open, just barely catching it from smacking into the wall and waking the household. His heart sank at the sight of Katherine twisting in her bed, her face drawn in pain, pulling helplessly at the rat’s nest of blankets she’d somehow managed to trap herself in. He was most frightened by the sounds she was making, though—the pitch and intensity of her cries reminded him of the way Crutchie sounded—the way Jack himself had sounded—after the Refuge. This wasn’t something to comfort from the outside—this was something to wake her up from.

He did it carefully, starting by sinking down onto the floor at the side of her bed and murmuring quietly. “Katherine. It’s a dream. Wake up, Katherine. It ain’t real, okay?” He cooed and hummed to keep up a steady stream of sound and then, once he figured she’d had time to register his voice, he reached out to rub her arm. She was lying on her back, meaning that he couldn’t pat her there like he usually did with the newsies, so he settled for patting her on the shoulder. “Katherine. Wake up. Wake up, love. You’re dreamin’, Ace, an’ I needs ya ta wake up for me, alright? Can ya do that?”

Her twitching and tossing slowed, and her eyes started to flutter open.

“Easy, there, Katherine, easy. That’s it, nice an’ slow. You’ve been dreamin’, an’ now you’re wakin’ up, an’ it’s okay.” He kept patting her shoulder and raised his voice ever so slightly. “You’re safe, Katherine. I’m right here. It’s your Jack. You remember me, yeah? I’m not goin’ anywhere, okay? I’ve got ya. That’s it, now, deep breaths. Shhh, shhh, it’s okay.”

She turned her head towards him and struggled to sit up, wincing at the pain from her broken ribs. “Jack?”

He laid his hand on hers and rubbed her fingers. “That’s right, it’s me. It’s Jack. You was havin’ a nightmare just now, but it weren’t real. You’re safe, I promise.” He stood up and began to peel the sweat-soaked sheets away from her body. “I’m gonna get these covers offa ya an’ tuck ya back in with some fresh blankets, alright? An’ then I’m gonna stay right here ta chase all those bad dreams away, yeah? I won’t let nothin’ hurt ya.”

She propped herself up with her elbows, pain be damned, and shook her head violently. “It was so real, Jack. There was smoke, and fire, and it was so hot, it was coming, and I couldn’t get out, and I couldn’t breathe, and someone had tied me up…” She started to sob, squeaky, unflattering shudders of sound that wracked her bruised body.

Jack eyed the twisted bedsheets and Katherine’s flushed face and made an executive decision. “Alright. We gotta get ya outta that bed.”

“What?” She hiccupped the word through her tears. 

“Lemme untangle ya from these blankets real quick, an’ then I’m gonna go open the window an’ carry ya outside, okay?”

She nodded and wiped at her tears, smearing them across her blotchy cheeks. Jack disentangled her from the knotted mess of comforter, top sheet, and goodness even knows what else—how many blankets did a person need when they had central heating? He disappeared briefly to unlatch the window again, but soon enough he was back in her room, bringing the faint scent of snow and cold air with him. He gave her a smile and crossed to the wardrobe, where, after a few seconds of rummaging, he found an extra quilt, two pillows, a pile of neatly folded sheets, and a thick down comforter. Normally he’d have bristled at discovering that hotel rooms had extra sets of everything, extra sets of warm bedding that just… sat in a closet, gathering dust, when his boys were shivering under threadbare blankets, but tonight his only thought was for Katherine.

He draped his finds over his arms and handed the pillows to her. “Hold these, okay? I’m gonna scoop you up now, so you tell me if it hurts an’ I’ll find another way ta get ya out there.” She nodded again, and so he scooted one hand under her knees and another against her back, careful not to knock against the side he saw she was favoring. She clutched the pillows to her chest and leaned her head against his shoulder, still quivering from the nightmare and the crying. “Shh, darlin’, shhh. You’re safe. I’ve got ya.”

It was difficult climbing out a window while carrying a young woman, but Jack somehow managed to duck and bend and fit both of them through without jostling Katherine too much. He kissed her hair as he set her down on the fire escape and then began arranging the blankets he’d brought. He readjusted her to sit on a comforter that he then wound around her, and he tucked the pillows behind their heads. As they leaned back against the brick exterior of the Waldorf-Astoria, he cuddled up next to her, wrapping his arms around her delicate frame and kissing her on the cheek.

“It’s like in my dream,” she whispered. Jack shot her a look of concern, but she shook her head. “No, not that dream—a dream I had earlier today. We were up on the fire escape together, and you held me and called me darling.” She looked up at him through damp eyelashes that were beginning to crystallize with frost. “I liked that dream. That’s the only good thing that’s happened to me since… since…” and then she was crying again, but these tears were soft and slow, the product of conscious remembering and catharsis, not visceral fear.

He hugged her even closer. “I’ve got your back, Ace, both in your dreams an’ outside ‘em.”

She snuggled into his shoulder and said, “I know. Thank you, Jack.”

“For sure.” He rested his chin on her head and savored the warmth of her body against his own.

“Why are we out here, though, Jack? Why are you here at all?”

“We’s out here ‘cause you keeps dreamin’ about fires, an’ there ain’t no way your mind’ll do that to ya when it’s this cold outside. All those piles of blankets an’ that stuffy hot room was just makin’ things worse.” He paused, and then she heard a smile in his voice as he said, “An’ as for why I’m here—I’m here ‘cause you need me. I’ll always be here when ya need me.”

“What did I ever do to deserve you, Jack Kelly?”

He chuckled. “My old man used ta ask me the same question when I was misbehavin’.” They sat in silence for a moment and then he added, “You’s the best thing that’s ever happened ta me, Ace. I ain’t gonna sit by an’ watch you hurtin’.”

They took a minute to listen to each other’s gentle breathing and watch the stars burning in the heavens. It seemed impossible that anything beyond the two of them could exist, that there was a world beyond the one they’d created here for themselves on this fire escape, and Katherine decided that this was better than her dream. The real Jack was always better than anything she could dream up for herself—she didn’t have a good enough imagination to conjure up his wit, his confidence, his tenderness, the deep-down- _goodness_ of him that never ceased to take her breath away. “This is exactly what I needed, Jack. Thank you.”

“My pleasure, Ace. Now get some sleep, okay? I’ll be right here, all night long, so don’t you go lettin’ those nightmares bother you—I’m gonna keep ya safe an’ sound, I promise.”

He felt her nod against his shoulder, and eventually he could tell by the weight of her body and her even breathing that she had finally fallen asleep. He managed to stay awake a little while longer, drinking in the peace and unquestionable rightness of being here with Katherine, but soon he surrendered to sleep, too.

 

***

 

Joseph Pulitzer awoke with a start and found himself unable to fall back asleep. He decided it must be worry for his family that had roused him so early, and so he pulled on his dressing gown and checked through his children’s rooms. The little ones were all sleeping soundly, but Katherine would be the real test. She had improved slightly on Monday afternoon, but he didn’t trust that to hold. He shuffled into the living room, relying on the glow from the moon and stars to light his way instead of flicking on the lights. And that’s why, as he crossed the living room, he was able to see two heads silhouetted in starlight on the fire escape.

Frowning, he moved to the fireplace to grab a poker and then tiptoed towards the window. He stopped cold when he realized who it was. What on _earth_ was that Kelly boy doing here, and what in the blazes did he think he was doing by sleeping next to Joseph Pulitzer’s daughter on the fire escape of the Waldorf-Astoria at five in the morning? This would not stand.

He marched towards the window to shake Kelly awake and run him off, but then the realization hit him. Katherine was sleeping peacefully. Her face was calm. There might even have been a smile playing around her lips. No tossing, no turning, no moaning, no tears—she was quiet and still and fully, blissfully asleep. And that was all down to Kelly.

Sighing, Pulitzer returned the poker to the fireplace and returned to his bedroom. He was back at the window a minute later with a down comforter in hand. It was so well stuffed that it required a bit of shoving to force it through the window out onto the fire escape, but he managed. After gingerly following the puffy duvet outside, he tucked the comforter around Katherine and smoothed the hair back from her face. Come morning, he’d tell Kate that he stood by his earlier decision not to break these two apart. Kelly wasn’t at all what he wanted for Katherine, but it seemed that Katherine had made her own choice. At least for now. After a slight pause, Pulitzer readjusted the comforter to cover Jack, too. He stood for a moment and watched the synchronized, slumbering breaths of his beautiful daughter and that infuriating boy, the two of them nestled tightly in each other’s arms, as if they believed they were the only things in this broken world worth holding onto.

Shaking his head, Joseph Pulitzer climbed back into the suite and into bed with his wife. He would let Jack and Katherine sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently radiators existed at this point, so… can we call that central heating? 
> 
>  
> 
> THE END!
> 
> I hope y'all liked it-- please do let me know if you did, comments always make my day :D


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